Amnesia: Clarice
by cheddarbiscuit
Summary: "They can all be saved." She muttered to herself, "There is always a way."
1. prologue

cheddarbiscuit Presents:

Amnesia: Clarice.

Summary: "They can all be saved." She muttered to herself, "There is always a way!"

Disclaimer: I could never think up anything so horrible as Amnesia, but now that it's here... Might as well have a little fun.

* * *

Well, actually, some explanation:

So, the events prior of Amnesia: Justine happen: Justine's brother is born and her mother dies, Justine is submitted to psychological testing by her father. Justine murders said father, Justine continues spiraling downwards into a dark black abyss of madness from where there is no escape, and she drags three suitors, a priest, a doctor, and a policeman down with her to have madly exiting adventures in her basement.

It's all about Justine. Justine. Justine. And her three suitors. Amnesia is not a big fandom, I'll give it that, but you would at least think of the one character that stood there and observed everything, but she only gets mentioned once and has two seconds of screen time, max. I'm talking about Clarice.

Clarice, who tried to be friends with Justine, but was punished for doing so. Clarice who probably saw what was going on but stuck by her mistress anyway. I'm a huge fan of back ground characters, and I'm a huge fan of ass-kicking and crafty babes. Clarice, if she did see what was going on probably has balls of steel under that petticoat of hers.

Or, actually, she doesn't. What ever.

* * *

Prologue:

Overlooking the Strait of Dover is the town of Calais. It sits just in the English Channel, on a quaint artificial island. Not quite in France, really, because it is out in the water, but you can bet your last franc that it is made of French soil and sand. On a clear summer's day, when the gulls are calling and the children are playing in the surf and the waves are smooth and glassy blue, if you stood on your toes on the mainland shore, and placed a hand over your eyes and believed in yourself, you could see the white cliffs of Dover, just across the water.

As Clarice snapped the goose's neck, she was not really concerned with Pas de Calais. Her ears felt empty after the honking of the poor bird stopped. Quickly, she set it down and jerked the butcher knife from the wall and hacked its head off, letting it bleed out into a pail, and getting blood all over her already stained apron. It was her cooking apron. It was supposed to be stained.

She took its feet and dunked it into boiling water. The feathers fell out with just a light touch then, when she was certain she had gotten all of them, she brushed them aside, cursing when a few of them stuck to the hot water on her hands. She dried them on a slightly cleaner part of her apron and continued working. She began to slice the bird open at the tail, carving into the chest cavity and removing the innards. These she tossed into a second part of boiling water to make a broth, then rinsed the carcass once more.

She left it for a while, turning to a sack of apples, two lemons and three cloves of garlic not more than a few feet away. The garlic she cut into small slices, and the lemons she cut in half, and she juiced them before turning to the apples and cutting them each into wedges.

Once it had bled dry, she took up the butcher knife again pricked the skin in several places, slipping a thin slice of garlic into each slit for flavoring. Then she sprinkled the inside and out with a sound amount of salt and pepper, then she transferred the goose onto a roasting pan, and walked with it over the iron range top stove. She opened the heavy door and a blast of hot air greeted her, tossing back a few stray strands of blonde hair and drying out her clear blue eyes. She shoved the goose in and slammed the door.

The bread was near fully raised now. It would be a close call, but she would manage to have everything fresh and ready in time for Mademoiselle Justine's guests.

She stopped for a moment. Guests again. She found herself trembling. Stifling a whimper she covered her eyes and bit her lip. She was remembering the _other_ guests. The guests that she had watched be practically murdered. Kidnapped. Tortured. She had covered her head with the pillow at night and pretended she could not hear the screaming under the floors. Mademoiselle had gone into the crypt again.

Clarice had gone in their once, just a few weeks ago. There had been six open graves, aside from the grave of Monsieur Florbelle, which had also still open and gaping. The man who was supposed to have laid him to rest stopped before his task was complete. But there was also a locked door there when Clarice had gone inside herself, back when Mademoiselle had first started disappearing under the grounds of hours, sometimes even days, on end. She always came back covered in grime and filth, but after the disappearances, she had come back covered in blood as well as dirt.

But once, she had gone down and the screaming had stopped, and shortly after that, these six men had been lured into hell themselves. Would this mean that _these _guests would become part of Mademoiselle's experiments as well?

She had to sit down after covering the apples from keeping them from browning. She did not want that, because that would have to mean she had to come to terms that all or _most_ of the others were dead, and she could never live knowing that. Partly because she had lead them to their own deaths. Or, she had lured them there. Something. It was partly her fault; she had done nothing to stop what she had seen, and that was almost as bad as doing it herself.

And now, it was happening again. It had been a nightmare for her, and the nightmare was still going on. It was just almost over. But how long would it be until there were bodies piled upon bodies inside the crypt? Another mother else would send an inspector. Another mother would call the doctor and a preacher. Another mother's son would be taken underground.

The servants had left because they were all too afraid to remain. Clarice had stayed, in good faith that only her skills as a maid and cook would be needed. She had seen the warning signs. She knew that Justine had killed her own father, and she had gotten away with it, of all things, but that did not mean there was no good inside of her. No. There was. Somewhere. It was just buried deep inside and it would probably never be found again.

Because if the moans did not stop, it would mean Justine had let them live in that night mare and that was just as evil as letting them go.

She realized she had been washing her hands for quite some time now. She looked back to the counter. Of course. She still had to make the Hor'doeuvers and the dessert. She hardly focused, though, besides, she had made these before. She knew it by heart. They were…

They were _his_ favorites. She shuddered again and set the knife down. Violin music echoed in her head, a nice, happy tune and she had to sit down once more. She was pathetic. Horrible. She got up again and started mixing the lemon cake batter. He had liked those too. Then again, he had liked everything she had put before him. He had not been a fussy eater.

She set the batter aside to bake later and started chopping the vegetables for the broth. Carrots, zucchini, shallots for flavoring, then peppers and red cabbage. When she cut the onions she could pretend _that_ was why she was crying. She wiped her eyes with the back of her knuckles and washed her hands again. The gruesome bits were over now. She could change her apron now, maybe do some dusting on the dining room. Would she need to change the linens. No. Probably not. She was pretty sure they were not staying. She could stick fresh lavender satchels in the pillow cases and they would never know the difference on the off chance that they _did_ stay.

She went out into the garden again, plucking a few currants for tea and several sprigs of lavender. She went back to the kitchen and chopped the little pale flowers, then slipped them into several tiny cloth sacks. Checking once on the goose, she basted it once with its own drippings to keep it from drying out, and she took away most of the fat that had melted away. After making sure everything was in order and the door outside was bolted, she walked up into the upper floors, exchanging the old, stale satchels with the fresh ones. For good measure, she changed the sheets on Mademoiselle Justine's bed. There was a lithium stain. She chose to ignore it.

She stopped in the room Malo had slept in. It was for just a moment. Just a second. There were a few sheets of music strewn across the table that she had left once. She knew what they were. They were an unfinished solo, called, almost insultingly, 'Justine.' It had been written before the fiasco at the conservator It had been written before the fiasco at the conservatory, perhaps just a day before. Malo had played what he had composed, and Justine had tempted him to drink more and more wine. The final glass had absinthe.

She had left the pages there, but now she was filled with remorse and envy, so she snatched them up and crumpled then, stuffing them into Justine's old, bundled sheets. She switched the satchels in his room and walked back down the stairs, wiping tears from her eyes. Once that was done she dropped the old flowers into the compost and tossed the little white satchels in to the kitchen hamper with a few hand towels to be washed later.

She started to throw the sheets in there as well, but Malo's sheet music fell out and she stopped. She shook the bedding out the rest of the way, to make sure every piece was laying on the floor. There were three total. She tossed the sheets aside and picked up the papers, turning towards the range top stove. There was a place for hot air to escape, along with a few flames and the smell of roasting goose. This was supposed to be used to make tea and soups (just as she was). She thought about holding the papers to the flames and watching them burn away, so that maybe she could forget, but no sooner had the flames touched the paper that she smothered the fire against her apron, scorching it a bit (but it was not her best apron, anyway.) Frantically, she smoothed them out with her hands and laid them on the flour covered cabinet.

She could not let go of a little piece of Malo. Just like she had kept their clothes tucked away in the closet, where it was dark and dry and the elements could not hurt them, just above the Calva—

The Calvados!She leapt up and rushed to the pantry in question, and took down the apple brandy. She did not have time to mourn and think. She had to prepare the apple dressing for the goose! How dare she become so careless!

She had already cut the apples and juiced the lemons. She took a knife and scraped the pulp away then cut the remaining peel up into thin slivers. She placed those slivers into a glass jar and covered them with olive oil. After placing the glass stopper into the mouth of the bottle, she set it into the sun. Now he needed to sugar them and coat them with cinnamon. She fetched the spices in question from the pantry, looking up once again at the hidden clothes. She did not have time to look at them.

She checked on the goose again, basted it, and stuck it back into the stove, she ladled the fat she had removed into a glass dish, and tossed the apples and lemon juice in a bowl. Carefully, she moved the apples into the dish, with just a sprinkling of lemon pulp, then sugar, cinnamon, and the Calvados. She stuck them inside the stove as well, just above the goose. The bread was done by that time, and so she stuck it in to a separate oven, this one was a wood burner, not as hot.

She tossed a few herbs into the broth, waiting for it to boil all of the fat off of the bones before she added the vegetables.

She could leave everything for a while. She had to set the table.

There would be only five, according to Justine. Clarice set five places, with the newly polished silver and the finest wine glasses of cut glass you've ever laid eyes on, with little silver filigree on the bases and rings in the necks, and their best china plates. The ones Justine had bought to impress Alois. They had done their job well. They would continue to do their job well. She brushed a bit of dust off of the first one and once again felt a little guilt then. Even by setting the places, she was guilty, wasn't she? She had been told to use the best wine they had. She had to go down to the cellar to get it.

That was when she heard noises coming from down stairs.

It was just a roar, wheezing and pained. Faint. She distracted herself to walk over to the door leading down into the crypt and she trembled. What made that noise? Why did Justine keep putting herself in danger like that? What if the monsters within escaped? Would they, someday?

She hurried past into the wine cellar. She did not give a damn about the best wine. It was all good. She grabbed one and rushed back up the stairs. She heard the roar again, and the clatter of chains and gears inside the wall. She rushed forward, set the wine down on the table, and went back into the kitchen, shaking.

"Salad." She said aloud, "A four course meal needs a salad."

She shredded the lettuce first, then sliced a few radishes, added some celery, tomatoes, the usual. It would be served after the goose with her own secret vinaigrette salad dressing. It was her grandmother's recipe, and while women of the Laurent family were no prized cooks, they were still a cut above the rest.

Just look at me, she though pushing a stray hair behind her ear, "I'm doing this on my own!" she added aloud, but no one could hear her.

She cut more carrots of the salad, cutting them into matchsticks, the a few cucumbers. She smirked to herself, she would be eating leftovers tonight. These nobles ate like birds. Very quickly these vegetables would rot. Then what would she do? Throw them out.

Once that was done she straitened her hair again. It was time to clean herself up. Draw water for Mademoiselle's bath, and heat some of it up. Now she threw the vegetables into the broth and let it continue to boil. She went out to the well house and filled a crude black kettle with the cold water, which she then placed on the stove and let heat up for Mademoiselle Justine's bath. She would _need_ to take one.

She filled up a large bucket and took it into the bath suite, dumping it into a large, ornate tub. She added a few drops of lavender oil in anticipation of her Mademoiselle's arrival and went into her room and laid out a fresh dress and underclothes for her.

The bread was done by the time she rushed back to the kitchen. She took it out to let it cool. She heard gears moving then, incredibly loud ones. She ran to the door way of the crypt and listened with baited breath. It was just that. Just the gears. Then they died down. She waited, paralyzed, expecting to hear screams of despair, but she did not. She heard a very faint murmur. It sounded like a man's voice.

It was silent again for a least a minute. Maybe five. She was close enough to the kitchen, and she did not smell anything burning, so she waited. She heard something else, but this one was fairly clear. It was Mademoiselle Justine's voice. "… don't want any of the guests coming down here."

Clarice turned around. She pressed her back against the wall, and then rushed forward on a spur-of-the-moment choice, calling out, "Mademoiselle Justine, are you down there? Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine Clarice." came her Mademoiselle's fine alto, "I'm quite all right. Is everything ready for tonight?"

"Yes, the goose is ready any minute now." Well, actually, and half hour now, but whatever, "And the guests should be arriving within the hour. Um, did I hear voices from down stairs?"

Justine was filthy. Her hair was matted, her face smeared with dirt that had been washed away by tears. Clarice reminded herself not to stare, even at this one sign that her Mademoiselle _did_ feel emotions. She said, as if nothing was wrong, "I certainly hope not."

"Oop!" she said dismissively, "Silly me."

"Yes, silly Clarice." Justine said, grinning slyly.

There was silence for a moment as she walked past. Clarice shut the door and she could have sworn she heard a faint scream of despair. She shivered and said, "Y-You're bath is nearly ready. The water is heating up in the kitchen."

"Good."

"I have laid out that red dress, the one... Everyone agrees looks best on you."

She was about to say 'Basile,' but _everyone_ did agree that Justine looked stunning in dark red. She was a beautiful woman, with arching, dark brows and deep, dark eyes. Her hands were untouched by work and labor. Clarice looked down at her own at her hands. They were calloused and rough, with short fingers. And they appeared stubby to her, especially compared to Justine's long, slim fingers. Her hair was blonde, so any hope of seeing her eyebrows was long gone. Her face was perpetually red; her voice was biting from constantly bargaining with grocers.

"Ah, good. And Clarice, I want you to borrow one of my pendants to night, give yourself a little sparkle."

"No, Mademoiselle, I couldn't. I might damage it."

"You'll only be serving dinner!" Justine said, walking off into her bathroom. Clarice made a note to avoiding letting the guests walk into this corridor. She was soiling the carpet. Again.

When she was gone, Clarice fetched the hot water and checked on the goose. It still needed a little more time. She hurried with the water into Justine's bath suite, and carefully poured it into the tub. When she was certain the temperature was perfect, she called Justine in, and helped her to strip out of her corset, so she could take her undergarments off on her own.

Clarice had to leave her to wash herself (but Justine was used to this). She took Justine's undergarments away (not to wash them, to burn them. They were beyond saving.) The maid went back to the well house and pumped water into the black kettle again, still hot from the stove, it heated the water to a lukewarm. She stripped off her apron, and her dress, splashing the water on her face and neck, giving herself a gentle scrub with a harsh soap. She put on a clean dress and her old apron (she would change it later) and brushed her hair out, then twisted it back. She put on her cap again and rushed back to the kitchen.

She took the goose out of the oven and arranged the apple slices around it, then she sliced the bread quickly, and arranged the slices into two baskets. She put these in the center of the table with a pat of butter she had bought that morning. There was one special touch the table still needed. She picked a few flowers from the garden and placed them in cool, fresh water, then placed them on the center of the table, just after while setting a teapot on the stove to boil.

Justine called her then. She had stepped out of the tub and put on her chemise and drawers. Clarice had to put on her corset and dress. She pulled the strings has tight as she could. It was not hard to do, considering Justine had not eaten since last night. Once Justine was primped and polished, Clarice set her in the sitting room to await her unfortunate guests.

She had just changed her apron when the guests in question arrived. She put them in the sitting room with Justine, and promised the hor'doeuvers along with tea briefly. The tea had boiled by the time she had gotten back, and she let the water cool and seep for several minutes while the appetizers heated up again on the stove top, where everything was being kept warm. Once the tea was done she brought and the small treats it to the guests and Justine, who were all happy to receive them. She dismissed herself and let Justine handle the tea because she still had quite a bit of cooking to do. She had to put the cake on now that the goose had vacated the oven, and she did just that, so that it would be cooled in time for the _after dinner_ chamomile tea.

She considered shampooing the rug, but she knew there would be no time and she did not have another pure white apron. She would do it after dinner.

Fifteen minutes and she was serving the roast goose. No one said a word about it for their small talk, but of course, Clarice was used to that, and it was not really her best goose, she supposed. She waited in the wings until she was called, eating a heel of bread and a hunk of cheese from the hor'doeuvers. She finished it off with an apple form the orchard a bit of cold tea that was still in the pot. She took the cake from the oven and gave it a light dusting of confectioner's sugar, slicing it into small pieces and washing out the tea pot for the chamomile tea.

Then she served the salad.

She went immediately back into the kitchen to brew the tea. Justine would call her when they wanted dessert, just as she had done with the salad. She picked up the tray with the hor'doeuvers, some of them were still there, and she snacked on some of them, before setting them down in the kitchen and ignoring them. She had nothing to do now. Nothing. Her eyes fell on Malo's sheet music again. She picked it up and looked it over, telling herself she was being silly for keeping it. It was not written in _her_ honor. I never would be. No one would extol her virtues.

What virtues did she have to extol, anyway?

Clutching the sheet music to her chest, she walked down the soiled carpet and back towards the entrance to the crypt. There was a rush of cool, stagnant air that reeked of rot and filth. She grimaced and into the darkness she asked, "Monsieur De'Vinny?"

All she heard was a faint, wheezing howl. She covered her mouth. Tears came to her eyes.

She heard another faint noise. A man screaming. Then another. She closed the door quickly and waited in silence, listening to the sound of her own heartbeat.

And she could have sworn she heard an old man say faintly, _"Three are we, three are ye. Have mercy upon us." [1.]_

She jumped with the sound of a bell ringing. That would be Justine. Her guests must want dessert now. Clarice went back to the kitchen to fetch it, clearing away the salad and replacing the plates with lemon cake.

Her work was pretty much done for now. She had to wash the dishes, but that could wait. She might be called upon to serve more tea and cake. She sat in the kitchen, wondered if she would ever see anyone aside from Justine emerge from the underground alive, and tried not to cry.

She knew. She knew Justine had murdered her father. She knew Justine was considered strange and different, but she had never cared, even when everyone else quit, even her own family members, leaving her alone, to serve Justine every day and every night, just her. Three floors. Three acres. One mistress. Three meals, one bath, clean sheets every three weeks and laundry. All of the sewing, all of the errands. A house that had used to house ten servants now was held up by one. Now Justine had guests again so the work load would be worse.

It looked like she was bringing in gentry again, just as Monsieurs Racien, De'Viny and Griox had all been commoners, easily seduced by a beautiful woman with wealth. She found herself praying that the moans below her continue, because she knew it they stopped at least six men were head, and six more would follow in their footsteps, and she would have to sit back and watch.

She could always do something about it, but what? The police? There was already one inspector down there, fat lot of good he had done. Poor man. Poor Madame Marot.

But, she could not think of doing anything. The same fate would probably await her.

Maybe the others had never quit. Maybe they, too, had gone below. If she thought about it, and she tried not to think about it, the gardener and a stable boy had vanished shortly before Clarice had been able to hear shouts and moans through the ground level floorboards. After that, a young psychologist by the name of Victor Fourneir had come by to look at her father's notes, to supplement his own doctoral thesis. Justine had welcomed him warmly...

... And had trapped him somewhere far below.

Then Justine had boarded off her father's old lab, claiming it was for the greater good and telling everyone who came by her father had done it, so that no one could ever see his notes again.

Then Father David had come.

Then Father David was _gone_.

She shook her head, got to her feet, and began to wash the china dishes. She would put them away once the guests had left. It sounded as if they had retreated into the sitting room again, and Justine would reciting her poetry. Clarice continued scrubbing as applause reached her ears.

After Father David, Justine had realized that no one could do anything against her, and the real trouble had begun. Of course, it had been nice for Clarice, because the two of them had been so close as children, that Justine always selected her to accompany her on her little 'adventures.' Weeks of preparation were put into one; where they would go, what they would do, what affluent older gentleman would escort them, and there was always a nice, new dress in it for her. She had been about sixteen at the time of the first outing on the town, Justine was about nineteen. They had gone to a social racquet ball competition, and that had been the first time Justine cast her spell on Alois Racien.

He had not been the best player in the world, he had lost about three matches in, and he had been eager to talk to Justine, bute hand heand she did not do anything or say much. She had simply watched the game.

The next time, about six months later, it had simply been a walk in the park for most of the day, and a luncheon at a nice restaurant. That was where they had met a Malo, playing his violin like he had been born to do it (and indeed he was.) Clarice had been very impressed with his skill, and had remarked on his boyish good looks. Justine had nodded thoughtfully, and had beckoned him over. Clarice had been too stunned and shy to say a word to him.

And so he had developed eyes for only her more stunning companion.

After that, everyone had slowly begun to drift away, leaving her with more and more work, and even then she had still had to go into town with Justine, and she kept staying longer and longer, until one time they had gone all the way to Paris, because Justine had wanted to see the catacombs, but Clarise had been so tired. She had checked into a hotel and had remained, Justine had gone below.

And that was the night she met Basile Griox. She had wasted no time inviting him back to the Florbelle estate, and he had wasted no time taking it.

All of the pawns had fallen into place, then. Very gradually, she had used her feminine wiles and charm to pull them down into madness with her, and they had never realized what was happening. They never saw that she herself was mad. Even when she had locked them all below, Alois kept declaring his love for her, time and time again. Clarice had been unable to stand it, she had delivered their meals daily, and it hurt her to watch them wasting away. Only Justine had the down stairs key, though, and Clarice was too afraid to steal it, even if only for an hour.

She had a nightmare once that she had tried, and Justine had slammed the door behind her, trapping her in with them.

It had not been a pretty end.

She sat down again, the china and silver washed and put away. She stared down at Malo's sheet music and wondered what would happen if she left. Would Justine hunt her down, or would she simply find someone else? Would she kill herself by letting the men she had trapped below ground kill her? Would she waste away above ground?

No. She would find away. Justine always found a way.

Clarice heard the small golden bell chiming again, a signal that she was needed.

When she arrived in the sitting room, she saw that Justine was alone, a pot of cold tea and a half-eaten lemon cake on the coffee table. Clarice asked groggily, "Oh… did you guests leave, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, Clarice, they left." Justine answered, "If you would put the cake away and come attend to me, I believe I will... Turn in early."

Clarice did as she was told, choosing to pour the unused tea out later, perhaps drink a cup herself, before she shampooed the carpet. She joined Justine in her room, when she stripped away her red dress, folding it nicely, and putting her jewels away. She took off her corset, combed out her hair, then took the waste water away after she washed her face and neck.

"What... Were you doing in the basement, Mademoiselle?" she asked, against her better judgment.

Justine sighed heavily.

"You never look well when you return, you know."

_... and neither does the carpet._ Clarise though, remembering how she would need to wash it before the morning.

"I was simply... Experimenting." she said cooly, "You know how it is, Clarice. It is simply... Fasinating down there."

"Well, perhaps you should stop experimenting on yourself." Clarice said, blowing out the candle, "Good night, Mademoiselle."

She shut the door and walked down the dark hallway with just a candle for company. She rubbed the fatigue out of her eyes and continued walking down, back into the kitchen and she took the lye soap from the closet. She looked up at the hidden clothes once more, and considered sitting there, just staring at them for a while, but she reminded herself that wars were not won by sitting idle and carpet did not clean themselves.

It was harsh stuff. Even diluted, the fumes burned her eyes. She scrubbed hard at the dark foot pints, frowning. Mademoiselle had just lovely, tiny feet, it was too bad the tracks she made were so stubborn. That was her fault for letting it sit so long, but really, what could she do? Serve dinner reeking of sewers and lye soap. No. Certainly not. It was _their_ fault for running off like cowards.

Or, maybe it was in fact brave to run away from someone like Mademoiselle Justine. Clarice may never know. She did not realy care to know. All she knew was that she had several yards of carpet to clean.

She head moans below her, and, acting on a whim, held her ear against the soapy carpet. They stopped shortly after that, but not suddenly. They had not died, they had just gone to sleep. Perhaps they had given up. They tended to sleep alot. She wondered which one it was for a moment, then realized the soapy water was seeping down through her skin and matting her hair. It was harsh stuff, even the fumes hurt her eyes.

Was it just in her head, or did she hear footsteps above her, too? Justine was in bed, who was walking up there?

She shook her head. She was tired. That was all.

It sounded like they were walking in the kitchen now. Clarice shook her head again, and got to her feet. Perhaps she could drink some te

The tea burned as it went down her throat. It burned like alcohol. Like...

She tried to cough it up. Spit it out. Do something. But she could see now, the trouble she was in. The tea had a distinct bright green color to it, or perhaps she was being paranoid.

... Like Absinthe.

* * *

[1.] Hey, kids, it's time to play place. That. QUOTE.

Oh ho ho! Justine, you evil bitch!

And we'll assume that Justine, being an evil bitch, actually resets her cabinet herself, so she's a) spared everyone and b) put everything back the way it was, including the notes. Yeah, no, it's just because I'm unbelievably lazy. So Clarice will, essentially, play what the player plays when they play as Justine. That makes some sense, because Justine remarks that _that_ version of the Cabinet was the best one yet (but she says that every time, I am sure) and it would be a shame to miss a perfect research opportunity.

I am also open to the theory that Clarice is actually an accomplice to Justine's crimes. In reality, that is the more probable of the two, but then there would be no story.


	2. Chapter 1

Amnesia: Clarise.

(Disclaimed.)

Watch Mangaminx's LP of Dead Space. Hear something moving around in bathroom vents.

INSTANT PARANOIA!

* * *

Part one: The Cabinet

"_Why not?" She asked herself, "After all, it was the best one yet."_

Chapter one:

Clarice woke up with a terrible headache and fogged vision. There was no surprise that she was horribly hung over. What was Mademoiselle thinking, drugging her with absinthe? Her, the only one who had remained? The one who did practically everything? Would any of them men down here be down here without her cooking?

No.

Oh, she was going to regret that.

Clarice was laying on her back on a moist stone floor, her hair falling from under her uniform cap. Groaning a little, she turned onto her stomach and buried her eyes in her arms to shield them from the faint light (which still hurt like a bitch, even if it was weak). When her head stopped throbbing so horribly, she reached out blindly and grabbed a handle of something. She tried to pull herself up by it, but it just turned and refused to hold her weight. Curious, she forced her head up and continued turning the handle, realizing that, of _all things_ there was a rope tied to it.

"_Bienvenue_!" Came a melodious voice.

"Mademoiselle Justine?" Clarice asked suddenly, looking up towards the sound. It was a _gramophone_, of all things. In the middle of a _prison cell_. Who puts gramophones in prison cells and why?

"You are now listening to the sound of my disembodied voice. It will serve you no purpose to look for me, for this is a voice from the past. I bid you welcome to my cabinet of perturbation!"

Clarice frowned. She said that last bit like it was some sort of brilliant inside joke. But she continued to listen to Justine's voice from the past.

"It is my study of the human psyche — specifically yours. A set of recording have been prepared to chaperone you through the chambers ahead."

Frowning, Clarice looked towards the barred door ahead of her. It may have been her imagination, but she could have _sworn_ she heard a moaning sound. She trembled.

"There are a few parts to this study, and it is up to you — not only to pass, but to figure out which parts are important. Please go on, move into the next chamber." the recording told her, "Just remember, they can all be saved, there is always a way."

Clarice crossed her arms and frowned, unsure of what to do, because she could not actually get the lock open. It was tide shut with a rope. When she followed that rope she saw that it was the same one that was tied to the recorder, and there was a lantern dangling from it. She stood on the small table and unhitched it. The metal lock broke as the rope pulled taught. Clarice jumped with the noise, nearly falling off of the table. Whatever moaned down the way previously had heard her. She kept the lantern, even though she saw no oil for it around.

Clutching it against her chest, she gently pushed the iron door open and started out into the hallway, very slowly, trying to be as silent as she could. For the most part, whatever had made that gastly noise appeared to be gone, at least for now. She continued on her way, until she heard a rasping breath beside her. She jumped and saw some poor demon disappearing. It had only been out of the corner of her eye, and perhaps that was why she was left panting and shivering against the wall.

She pinched herself.

That hurt. But then again, who was to say she had not just dreamed up the pain?

She should not be silly. This was real. It was so real.

Her head was pounding, and if that proved anything, it proved that much. This was real. This was something she had to do. Justine managed it almost once a week, Clarice may not be smarter, but she was faster and stronger. She was resourceful. She was persistent and hard-working. And while she was extoling her own virtues, she had a pretty strong stomach for gore. She had slaughtered animals much larger than geese. Hell, she had killed wild boars on her own, even a dog that had rabies.

She stopped freaking out, steadied her resolve, and took off her maid's cap. She contemplated her situation and her resources as she twisted her hair back and up, pinning it in top place again and tucking the cap into her apron pocket. It was no good on her head.

What else did she have? She had her clothes, and those could be taken off and used in emergency for impromptu bandages, rope, anything she might need. She had a lantern with no oil. If she found oil... She could light her way, if not? Well, she would keep it. It would come in handy and there was no point wasting anything

"If this is how she wants to play, I'll play." She muttered, She rolled up her sleeves and ignored her aching head, turning the corner and walking into a dead end.

But she did find a broken ladder.

Well, that was one more thing to have. It was heavy, but she carried it with her, back down the short hallway and up the second path, with her arm hooked under one of the rungs. It had dug painfully into her shoulder by the time she reached another door. She set it down to open it, then picked it up again and propped it against the wall, next to the door.

The hairs on the back of her neck pricked as she straightened up again. She was almost afraid to look behind her, for what she would see, but she took a breath and turned around quickly. There were seven cells, three on each side and one directly across from her. This meant that the only way out was the way she had come. She looked down, there was an open area in the floor, which revealed a pit, but the bars were spaced just far enough apart to barely catch a person's ankle and painfully let it go. She made a note to herself to skirt it whenever she passed it. She looked up. There was a loft with boxes, and what looked like a trapdoor on the opposite end of the room.

She should go check it out.

She could not move for a second. Then she could not move for an even longer second. "Come on, Clarice." She whispered to herself, "The sooner you get it done, the sooner you're out of here. Go."

Then, constantly checking left and right, she walked forward as quickly and quietly as she could, her eyes focused on every detail, or so she though, skirting past the iron gates, as she had told herse—

"H-hello? Is anyone there?"

She jumped, pressing her back against the gated cell door beside her. "Christ!"

And as if her voice had summoned someone else, a second voice called: "Justine?"

"Christ!"

The iron door on the furthest right door opened slowly, and she heard strangled gasps and breathing. She hid herself in the nearest cell, before she had a chance to look at either of the owners of the two voices. She pressed her back against the wall again, by the hinged side of the door, so if anyone came in after her, he door would have to open fully and she would have a good window of escape. Where she would escape too? Good question. She would think about that later.

The wheezing and moaning continued, but this time it was accompanied by the clink of chains. She closed her eyes and tried not to make a noise. Of course, that was difficult to do when every fiber of her being wanted to scream.

"Justine? Is that your footsteps I hear?"

She opened her eyes again, looking for anything in the cell around her that could be used to her advantage. There were bloody smears on the walls, like someone had tried to claw their way out. She could not see any other clues or signs or weapons. Slowly, she peeked around the corner.

She nearly screamed.

Whoever it was, they were a nude as the day they were born, but they certainly were not as untouched and healthy. They were starved down to the bone, and as Clarice felt a wave of fear, she also felt one of sympathy. He was collared and chained, like an animal, but the collar was more of a wheel that had been forced around his neck, god knows how, and the chains were embedded in his skin, wrapped around both legs and one arm, and did not restrain him, so much as hold him down, and make his movements clumsy and slow. He was covered in blood and grime and cuts. She could not see his face, but she knew his voice.

The chains were to hamper his natural athletic ability. He had been a racquetball player, after all. Quick on his feet and with some of the fastest reflexes she had ever seen. Now he was stumbling about blindly in a dark prison, unable to run as he had used to be.

She could not look any more, partly because it was horrifying, partly because he was naked.

The chains and wheezes passed.

"No! Come back!" she heard him call faintly, "Why did this happen?"

She let out a breath. The noises faded out of earshot, he was gone. For now. How long would he remain so? Until he reached the end of the hallway and doubled back? Perhaps he would rest?

"Are you still there?"

Clarice, shaking from head to toe, walked out of the cell and walked towards the voice. There was a man strapped down to a table, and a wicked looking sharp... thing, poised to strike him. It was attached to a chain, and if Clarice looked up at the ceiling, she could see that it was in turn attached to a mechanism in the wall. That mechanism was probably connected to a system of weights, and it would probably end with a lever.

Like that one right next to the cell door.

Which she sure as hell was not going to pull.

"H-hello." Clarice answered, "Wh-who are you?"

"Victor Founeir." He answered, "You don't sound like—"

"My name is Clarice Laurent." she answered, "I... I'm the maid."

She looked up at the trapdoor. It might also lead to the mechanism that opened that. Was the test that she had to pick one lever, either him or the door? Or were they connected? She saw no other levers, but it might be in one of the other cells.

She backed away from the lever and checked the cell to her right. There was nothing in it but a bible and an old metal cross on a rosary. She put the bible in her pocket, but was not really sure why she would need it, then slipped the cross around her neck. Having it there made her feel better instantly. Perhaps she should just have a nice ol' pray right there. No. Later.

She left the cell again and went to the one on her left, where she found absolutely nothing, except a sheet of paper. She picked it up and looked at it. It was Mademoiselle's curling script, and Clarice could hardly read it in the light.

_It is time to add a new addition to the cabinet. The other are amusing, but they are getting dull and predictable. I will add Clarice. I am sick of only having men in the cabinet. Certainly, they deserve it, but even Clarice fits the bill. The poor foolish girl is devoted to me in the highest degree, so she would be a fine addition to the suitors. However, she does attempt to change me, to make me stop. She thinks I am wrong. But I am not. I am never wrong, and so seeing her as one of the prisoners would be interesting, too. Would I let her live? How many times?_

Clarice crumpled the note, terrified and angry¸ then threw it into the corner of the cell, far away from her. She left quickly, now frustrated along with her fear. She entered the cell Alois had emerged from, and found nothing but the words_ forgive me_ written in blood, on a small table. It was quite dusty, and there was a square patch of table that was not. There had been something there at one point, but Clarice could not think of what.

She was looking for a key. Something that could open the door.

There was racket on the ground. She picked it up and examined it. She could beat someone a few times with it, maybe jam the handle into their windpipe, but not pick the lock or do anything to free the doctor.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes." Clarise answered, "I am looking for a key."

"Alois has it." The man answered.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

Clarice looked around the cell, but did not find anything. Least of all a key.

"I-I can't find it."

"Don't worry. I'll be alright. Go ahead."

"How?"

"I think she stacked boxes."

Now that she had a plan, she felt a little better, she went through the remaining cells, but only found Malo's Violin and a withered white rose, she piled all of the knick-knacks by the broken ladder and all of the boxes just under the trap door, but they were not quite high enough. She had remembered seeing plenty of boxes in the loft, and so she made a new stack just under them, and threw all the new material for makeshift stairs downwards.

She found a wax cylinder, too, and she tucked that away in her pocket with the bible and her cap, then climbed down again, to make a new stack. When it was done, she turned around to the doctor as she hitched up her skirts, the broken in her hands again, prepared now to climb the makeshift stairway, "Don't worry. I _will_ come back for you. When I get out of here, Miss Justine _will_ be brought to justice."

"Be careful. I have faith in you, but a little caution never hurt."

She looked towards the "They can _all_ be saved." She muttered to herself, "There is _always_ a way."

"That's the spirit."

"So there is someone else I need to save!"

"I'm sure you'll be able to handle it." the doctor said, full of encouragement.

"That's right!" She bolted towards the door, because she knew if she thought about it, she would regret it. She threw it open and screamed at the top of her lungs.

The encouragement in Doctor Founeir's voice was gone, "What are you doing?"

"I'm saving people!" Clarice shot back quickly before screaming again. When she heard nothing, she slammed the door once or twice, then, heaving a sigh in frustration, she picked up a bucket and a spare bit of chain, and raised as much of a fuss as she could.

Still nothing.

She backtracked all the way to where she had found the ladder, and then she heard the wheezing and moaning behind her. She turned around quickly, and peered out into the hallway. He had gone ahead of her now, and was on his way back to the prison cells, probably to resume his position in his cell. She followed him, slowly. She realized she had lugged the ladder than entire way, and wondered if she could use it to her advantage.

She could. She could pin him to the wall with it.

What would she do then? Talk sense in to him? He did not seem like he wanted to kill her, but then again, Alois had never been the violent type. Still, he might go through with it if he had truly been driven mad.

"Justine..." He muttered to himself, "I never poisoned Basile. Why did you do this to me?"

Who had vanished first? Basile. It had been Basile. Then Alois. Then Malo. Each one must have assumed they had committed some horrible crime. Did they know the other two were down here? Would Alois be sane enough to answer?

They had entered the cells now. Clarice, driven by mercy and fear, sped up so that she was beside him, raised the ladder, and caught him under the collar, pinning him against the wall. The ladder was long enough that she was out of his arms reach. She was safe. For now.

"J-justine?" he asked, "I-is that you, my love?"

She could not look him in the eye. She continued to look at where the wheel overlapped the ladder, then she saw something truly interesting, it was a thin chain hanging from his lip. Looped into a chain? A key. _The_ key. She would probably be unable to get it off of the metal loops, but she knew she did not have the heart to rip out the piercing, and even if she did how would she restrain him long enough to open the cell door? How would she fend him off long enough to free the doctor?

"Um..." she said against her better judgment, "No."

"Don't play games with me!" he said angrily, "Justine, you won't leave me again!"

He tried to lurch forward against the ladder, and Clarice looked up. What she saw was enough to make her loosen her grip and jump away. He had been blinded, the poor man! His own mind tricking him into thinking that every noise and every woman's voice was Justine's. It was not terrifying to look at. Not really. His blue eyes were just whited over, that was all. What was scary was the fact that he was stumbling over the ladder to kill and otherwise brutalize her.

He closed his bony hands around her throat, and even if his grip was weak, it was enough to kill her, and he tightened his finger more with each passing moment, determined to keep his 'Justine' with him. She kept her eyes on the key. That was what mattered at the moment.

"Hush now," Alois told her over her silent screams, "It's alright."

She kicked him in the chest, jumped to the side and grabbed a chair. She knocked him down with it, onto the iron gating, and his chained arm slipped through the bars. Now, if only she could trap him there. She could, but with what?

The racket!

She had to step on him to get his arm back though the bars. He screamed in rage, but she made sure he was unable to do anything. She slipped the racket through a loose loop of chain around his leg, then she put it through the bars, so that it would take him a while to get up. She tied his free hand to another bar with her cap. Now, she could at least try to focus on the key in his lip. She snatched up the chain and saw that the last link actually came off easily. She ran to the door of Doctor Founeir's cell and opened it, running inside and unlocking the shackles that held him, then ripping the sack off his head.

"Move!" She guided him by the arm to the stack of boxes, he tripped over the first few, but Clarice could easily see that he was not blind. He was just weak with inactivity and fatigue. She kept urging him on. "Go." she said, "Go, get up there! Climb!"

He had made it to the top now, and she had to go back for the ladder, unfortunately, and Alois was there waiting for her (obviously) he grabbed blindly and managed to snatch up her ankle, causing her to trip and hit her head on the floor. She turned back, simply afraid of him, not because she really had a reason, and tried kicking him again. The heel of her boot got stuck in one of the spokes of the wheel. Peachy.

With one hand, he wrapped a handful of her skirt around his hand once, and began to pull her back towards him.

"Justine! Please, Justine! Don't leave me!"

She used her stuck foot to keep herself pushed away from him. She was the stronger of the two, but he was still just as stubborn. Something had to give. Her dress begun to rip at the waist. She feared she would take his arm with her if she did manage to escape, and he would wind up bleeding out. That would defeat the purpose of trying to save him.

"They can all be saved." she said, freeing her shoe, "There is always a way!"

She got to her feet, grabbed her skirt, and boldly peeled his fingers away from his fabric she backed up quickly, so she was just out of arms reach, staring at him and growing used to this new form. For a guy how had just tried to kill her, he seemed honestly shaken up about this. Just because he was an empty husk of a man did not mean his emotions had been starved down, did it? No. No it did not.

"Alois." She said strongly.

"Yes, My Love?"

"I. Am not. Justine."

"Then who are you?"

"Clarice." she said bluntly, "The maid. Or did you think it was a fairy that clanged the linens and cooked those fine meals?"

"Where is Justine?" he asked, "What have you done with her?"

"What has _she done to me_ is more likely, and what she has done to _you?_" Clarice shot back.

e was silent for a long while, thoughtful, but Clarice did not think he was turning over any new leaf or reaching any earth-shattering conclusions. "I deserve this." Alois said, "I—I threatened to poison Basile."

Clarice did not say anything regarding that. Justine had probably done this simply because, not because of any fight between the said firmly, "I am not Justine. But I can take you to her. All you have to do is behave yourself."

'_Behave yourself_'? Like he was ten or something? Had she really just said that? Well, she could not take back her words, so she decided to let them hang there. Every moment she did not do something was a moment Justine was doing something even worse.

"I—I had to try. He's not good for her, but she likes him so much more. Malo's so much better at violin than I am at badminton, and what kind of a career is that, anyway? _Badmitton."_

"Hey Doctor Founeir, get over here!" she called to the young psychologist who was walking down the tunnel. He stopped, turned, and shuddered a bit.

"What?"

"Get over here." She said, then she added, "Please."

Reluctantly, he did so, "Y-yes?"

"We can't leave him here." She said, "That's just not right."

"He's homicidal—"

"—He thinks I'm Justine—"

"Homicidal and delusional, then."

"For a good doctor you sure are a great coward." She muttered to herself, climbing down the ladder again and stumbling down the staircase of boxes, "Hey, Alois! Be a man!"

He was silent. Maybe he was coming to terms with the nightmare. Maybe he thought he was dreaming, and by playing dead, the illusion would go away.

"Oh, come on. Stand up!" She said, pulling him to his feet. She wished there was some way she could clean him up, because he reeked of sweat and blood. She also noticed with a slight blush that he was also naked save the chains. She reminded herself that it was only a matter of time and she would be stuck here, and she would be no better off, so she might as well do what she could. Once he was standing on her own, she tore off the lower part of her apron, "Here, at least cover yourself up with this."

She easily turned the strip of fabric into a crude loin cloth (certainly that was redundant? Weren't they all crudely made? Whatever...) then she guided him over to the pile of boxes. He tripped over the first few, because the chains on his legs kept him from lifting his feet too high. She checked him for signs of gangrene, but only saw marks of malnutrition. She considered asking what he and the doctor had survived on, but it had looked like they had not been eating at all.

So she did not ask.

She climbed up the ladder ahead of Alois, and reached down to him, worried that even the slightest tug would tear his arms from his chest, then he would bleed to death in front of her, and she would never be able to live with herself. "They can all be saved." she muttered, "There is always a way."

She felt herself grin when she saw that he still had his racket clutched in his hand. There was some hope, at least. Maybe just for him. She wasted another few minutes going back to pick up Malo's violin and bow. With the still -empty lantern laced over her wrist and the instrument in her hand she climbed the ladder one last time and lead the way to the end of the secret passage and she dropped down to the lower level.

The fall hurt her ankle, but she knew it would be harder on the other two. She managed to catch the doctor, and the two of them coaxed Alois down. As they caught him together, she realized just how heavy the collar and chains made him. She knew that with them to at least talk to, she would manage to get through this.

There was another phonograph. Clarice walked towards it and turned the handle, but no noise came out. She remembered the wax cylinder, and she stuck it inside, turning the handle again. Would she have to find each recording? Would they have the answers

She regretted putting it in soon enough. Foggy voices reached their ears. The first was Justine, laughing. "Speak into the phonograph, Basile, Mon Cherie!"

The second was a drowsy Basile. "... what did you put into the wine?"

"Absinthe, silly Basile! Strong men like _you_ don't drink wine. Wine is for helpless women, like myself."

"My head, what is this thing? Get me out, I'm not up for your games."

Now, Mademoiselle sounded quite cross, "No you have to say it first. How beautiful am I?"

"Plenty, now let me out of this thing.

"No, that is _not_ what you say."

"You beauty is blinding..." Then he shouted in pain, "M-my eyes, what have you done to my eyes? Justine, this isn't funny, you've blinded me!"

"Ha ha! Can't catch me now!"

"I'll kill you, you whore!"

That was evidence, rather incriminating evidence. She took the cylinder out again and put in her pocket along with the bible. Her fingers brushed the worn metal and the shivers that had overcome her listening to the recording eased, until she was completely calmed again. She was going to be alright. She was not going to stop for that nice pray yet.

"Stay where you are. You shouldn't walk unless you really need too." She said to Alois and the doctor, "Save your energy. I will look ahead."

There was a trail of blood leading to the first door she saw.

...

Now was probably a good time for prayers.

* * *

A note on the suitors' appearance: While Alois is pretty much identical to the in-game model, I have other restrains planned for Malo and Basile, each designed to hinder them (for example, Basie's collar has bells on it, so he cannot hear softer noises...) Also, the fandoms have pretty standard ideas for what they look like, while I will be uploading my designs to my dA account, that will probably not be for a while.


	3. Chapter 2

Amnesia: Clarice

(Disclaimed.)

It is getting pretty windy these days, in the stair well of my dorm, the wind echoes in a creepy way.

* * *

_Did Clarice mean nothing to her? Good staff was hard to find, and Clarice was all she had. Maybe, she was not so perfect, after all._

Chapter two:

The doctor found her kneeling sometime later, still in front of the door. What was left of her white apron was now sullied by the dried blood she had fallen on. Her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped in prayer. Her lower legs were numb, but she did not want to stand, even if she knew she would eventually she would. The doctor was frail of body, he could not go on without encouragement. Alois was blind, he could not lead himself.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes." Clarice answered. "I believe so." She opened her eyes and refused the hand he offered to help her stand. With a little grunt of effort she got to her feet and squared off against the ominous door. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, laying her hand on the wood and letting it slowly swing inward.

There was a fire. There were diagrams along the wall and brutal surgical tools just below them on the table. There was a much sturdier table in front of them, with wicked restrains on it, there was a wheel on the side so Clarice could loosen or tighten them as she saw fit. There were bits of chain, along the wall and pokers in the fire that were probably made for piercing flesh and embedding the chains, just like they had been done for Alois. It was such a shame that there were tools to make him worse, but not better. She saw no saw capable of cutting metal, only skin and bone.

She found a hand written note. It was quite long, and picked it up.

_Alois was too easy. That is all I can say of him. He is too trusting, probably too forgiving, too. I... I hate it. It makes _me_ feel like the one being manipulated. He is simply too kind. He constantly claims he thinks of other before himself, and I am certain no one can be that good, or at least, I am certain that I can easily stamp it out of him. Even the best of us can be easily broken._

_He was too easy to drug, showed little resistance when I blinded him, and even claimed that he deserved such a punishment. His restrains were basic and rudimentary. The wheel-collar of my own design though heavy and capable of hindering him from getting through narrower openings, is clumsy and unspecialized. It hinders him, but not enough. It is a disappointment to see that something I created myself should fail._

_The only success in his bonds was those around his legs and arm. He used to be quite quick on his feet, and even then, they can be used against me. I have made his left arm so heavy that it can be used as a weapon capable of severe bruising on the first strike and minor fractures, if he is strong enough. I suspect that as time wears on and he gradually starves, his strength will fail him and he will no longer be able to hurt me._

_And he won't be able to forgive me soon, or trust me. I will see how loyal he is after a month as a monster. I must improve my methods if I hope to improve the cabinet. Alois is simply not an intimidating character, and his current, mutilated form, is not frightening enough. His self-inflicted wounds do not add much. He was a failure._

Not sure what to make of it, she tucked it away in her pocket, folded with in the leaves of the bible, then she looked around for more notes, clues, or anything of use, but aside from a fire poker that was too hot to handle she found nothing of immediate value, simply a phonograph. With a bracing sigh she turned the handle and let the recorded voice speak to her.

"_Congratulations_ for coming this far. I am _so_ excited for you!"

That was thinly veiled sarcasm and Mademoiselle Justine was not fooling anyone.

"I do hope you managed to save monsieur Founeir. He was a friend, and a colleague of my papa, you know. Friendly fellow, a real bon garçon, but frail of mind. He puts up an impressive front, but it is all an act, I assure you. Please go on, we are just getting started."

Then she was silent. Clarice looked at the doctor out of the corner of her eye and he looked frustrated, like he desperately wanted to polish his monocle, or tell Justine off. But he had no monocle, and nothing to polish the nonexistent eyepiece on. Still, he reached for his eye and grasped at nothing, then tried to pick up a piece of invisible shirt. He wound up wringing his hands and fuming more.

Clarice reflected on her own nervous habits, biting her nails and twisting her hand kerchief, for fluffing at her feather duster, and sure enough her dirty thumb nail found itself between her teeth. She grimaced, because she was not entirely sure what was under her nails at the moment, and tried for find a handkerchief to wring.

She seemed to recall Alois had a certain fondness of throwing his racket up and catching the handle each and every time. He had often done it between matches and if there was no ceiling he would attempt to throw it as high as he could, and there often were no ceilings on badminton courts.

She wiped her hands on her skirt and left the room. It had nothing but bad vibes.

She found Alois again, and there he was, flipping it like he always had, even if he was blind, he managed to catch it, each and every time. Strange how such little things could give her hope.

"We should go on." she said, "Come, Doctor, If you could get the violin."

The found a third door, and it lead to a dark hallway, lined on both sides with statues of cowering men. A heavy curtain of dust hung in the air and she sneezed once, violently, as she reached for the next phonograph she saw.

"On this next piece, you should be looking for some divine inspiration." Justine's voice instructed, "Time to delve into your spiritual side. What do you see? Is the man begging for mercy, or is he being bless? Perhaps both. Father used to say there were no right answers. Have the light guide you."

She and the Doctor both looked upwards to the lit chandeliers when the recording ended. The light was not particularly guiding. She took out the bible and thumbed through the leaves, breathing through her teeth in through, when it yielded nothing, she slapped it against her palm and started pacing, "Time to look around, I guess." she said, "Doctor, if you could come with me."

All she found was an abundance of tinderboxes, which could be used on the abundance of candles, but she only had so many pockets, so she eventually wound up stuffing the bible down her bodice

"Hey, there's a slide here."

"Oh hush, that can't possibly be important."

"Excuse me!" he doctor said, "This is the slide used for a shadow box and puzzle lock."

"What?" Clarice said, thumbing through Justine's journal entries from her father's experiments, "What are those?"

"I'll go look for them. I've worked with the devices before at an exhibition in Boston.

"I see. Well, good luck to you." He left the room and she continued looking for notes, but she could not find one. She went to the second room on the left and saw that it was some kind of library. There was one shelf with light and air coming from behind it, and Clarice tried moving it.

She heard the clicks of a few gears.

Then a scream of pain.

At once, she ran back into the hallway and shouted, "What? What is wrong?"

"N-nothing." Came doctor Founeir's voice, "I found the box."

"I... I found the lock." Alois said, "But I didn't pull the lever, I swear."

"I found what gets unlocked." Clarice said, "Whatever happened, it was my fault."

Doctor Founeir asked from his side of the hallway, "Monsuier Racien, how did you know there was a lock?

There was a hesitant silence. "I... I overheard you!"

Clarice found herself doubting that, but she could not bother saying anything about it. It would simply waste time. She found Alois in a well lit room, there was a metal box on the wall, with a small window above it. The box in question had two slots and one lever. Alois, true to his word, did not have his hands on the lever. The was a faint whimpering coming from behind the wall and the metal box, and as Clarice walked towards the far end of the room, she noticed another slide on a small table, which she picked up and put in her pocket. When she was near, she stood on her toes and asked the small window.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." Replied a shaky voice. It sounded like it belonged to an old man, "It was just a graze."

By this time Doctor Founeir walked in, two more slides in his hand. She dropped down and picked a candle off of the tall candle sticks and tried to peek inside. "Doctor, you know how this works?"

"Yes."

_Two_ voices answered her. She frowned and turned back to the Doctor and Alois. She pointed at the blinded suitor and gave the Doctor a questioning look. "D-Delusional?" he offered, "Thinks he's a doctor."

She looked back at Alois, who blushed slightly and looked away. He said no more on the matter, and instead sat on the nearby couch. She suppressed the sudden urge to say, 'don't I'll have to clean that!' because she knew it was not true, and cleaning was the last of her worries right now, besides, it was already heartbreakingly dusty. Perhaps he would get filth and blood on the dust, not the fabric.

"Well..." She said, looking back into the little window, "How does it work?"

"Come here, look at the slides."

"No. Hush." She said, waving him off, "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, child."

"Is that you, Father David?"

"Yes."

She could see him clearly now. Like the Doctor, he is face was covered, and he appeared to have eaten nothing in several days. There were three freshly bleeding punctures in his chest, but they were not very deep or wide. He would be fine once his blood dried. Very careful not to touch the lever, Clarice stepped away and looked at the slides in the Doctor's hand.

"Each set of slides is covered with these ridges, and each combination triggers a different smaller lever inside the machine which sets off a chain reaction through the floor, to the library, and opens the secret door. The same output, different input."

"And pushing the door open? That would trigger all four and stab him in four different places?"

"Yes."

"And this would kill him?"

"Yes."

"Not necessarily."

She looked at Alois again. He appeared flustered, and eventually said, "Well, clearly, he's still alive, and you're here so Justine must have been through here, and she must have spared him. One combination must work, and must _not_ kill him."

"Which... Which two?" she asked, taking out the two she had grabbed and spreading them out on the floor, "Is the man..." she said absent mindedly, turning it over her hands. "Receiving forgiveness or begging for mercy?"

Clarice turned all of the slides so that they were 'grooved side up' as the good doctor instructed her, and looked at the man curled up. _Look at the big picture, Clarice, two slots, two slides._

_"_Okay, so he's begging for mercy, but from whom?" she asked, holding it up to the light and holding each slide up in turn, "Man with sword? Man with open arms... Man standing triumphantly... Curses."

"The recording said '...or being blessed.'"

"But he does not look like he is being blessed."

"Just try to see it the other way." The doctor urged, "For a moment."

"Okay, well, if you're being blessed by a man with a sword, you're being knighted. If you're being blessed by a man with open arms, then, you're probably being blessed by god... And, a man standing triumphantly, well, whatever. There is no one combination that makes more sense than another combination."

"Isn't there a note? A clue?"

"No. Justine must have deliberately left them out for me." Clarice grumbled, thinking about the two notes she had found. They were only about evil things she did or might do. Was that part of the test? To leave Clarice clueless and without hope? Just because Clarice had suggested she stop this madness? "Just to torment me. I'll go look around again."

She got to her feet and looked around the room, and then searched the entire area again. She still found nothing, just Justine's journal, which offered nothing. There was a bolted up door in the room with the shadow box, she searched behind the books on the shelves, and only found one note. She began to read it:

"Thank you for choosing our lumina box and accompanying puzzle lock... Unimportant!" She said, crumpling it up and tossing it over her shoulder." She sighed heavily and walked down the hallway, where she found Alois still sitting on the couch and the Doctor pacing. She stood in place and stared at the four slides.

Whatever she chose, she would have to be brave. She could not cower from any—

Duh!

"Maybe we're over thinking it!" Clarice offered, "It's simpler than that!"

"What do you mean?" the doctor asked.

"I remember Justine remarking once, off hand, perhaps just to herself when she thought I was away, that blessing and begging both are for cowards. So, regardless of what we see, the kneeling man is a coward, even if he's being blessed or damned—and courage is superior to fear. We have to see each slide as two things, the triumphant man is courageous, too, because he had the will and ability to _make_ himself triumphant. So, we have to show that courage is greater than fear, but putting the triumphant man on top and the cowardly one on the bottom and—"

Father David drew a breath.

Her hand stopped at the lever.

"—And Christ I can't do this!" she said, stepping back and turned around, covering her eyes with her hand. "What if I'm wrong? I'll kill him!"

"Mademoiselle..."

She started pacing, "You're here!" she pointed at Alois, "Monsieurs Griox and De'Vinny are here as well, Father David is in there and Inspector Marot must be down here, too. And _Justine put you down here, like she expects me to get you out!_

"She leaves these notes just to taunt me and she won't give me a hint on how to save him, but I've freed you and I've gotten you to come along with me. This... This is just crazy. Justine is _mental_. She won't obey the rules set down by sane people... So... So why should I obey rules put down by her? I'm sane!"

"And just what do you propose we do?"

"Bust the wall down." She said, "I've done plenty of home repairs to know what a weak spot in the wall is, and _Justine_ must have done this job, and she can't do physical work to save her life. I should know. It's the only reason I am here."

She began tapping the walls, "Doctor—and I mean Monsieur Founeir—go find a saw or a crow bar or something."

"There's one at your feet."

"Oh!" Clarice bent over and picked up the tool in question, "Thank you."

"You can't honestly expect to get him out, can you?"

"I sure as hell _can_." Clarice spat back, "She got him _in_ there, I am getting him out. Hey, I think I found a weak point in the wall! Now, we need a battering ram... One of the statues! Perfect!"

Leaving Alois and the doctor where they were, Clarice walked out into the hallway and knocked one of the statues over, resulting in three screams of shock, "No body panic!" Clarice said, kneeling down so she could pick it up, "Doctor, could you come over here, please?"

He came to her and attempted to help her with the statue, she held its shoulders while he held its feet, they staggered back to the room, and Clarice hoped their courage could hold up until they broke through the wall, because she was certain without determination, they would not be able to support the statue's weight.

"Alois, either get over here or move."

He reached his hands out to follow the sound of her voice, "I want to help." he said weakly, "Let me help."

"We're lined up." She said, "All you have to do is hold on to the statue and run."

"A-alright."

"You can do it." Clarice said, redoing her hold on the statue, "Alright, on three. One... two..."

"Three!" they shouted together and they quickly ran the length of the room, slamming into the weak point in the wall Clarice had identified earlier. They coughed as wood splintered and plaster billowed up into the air, but after a second strike from the statue, their already tired arms gave out and Alois had injured his shoulder. After a seconds rest, Clarice got to her feet again and picked up a candle stick, hacking away at the weakened wall, until there was a hole in the plaster big enough for her to crawl through.

She found the key to his bonds at his feet, and freed him in a matter of seconds, climbing through the wall again and working on making the hole wider and lower, so that he might be able to climb out with more ease than she had. They stared at each other for a moment and Clarice let time catch up with her. She walked away to give the others a moment to catch their breath, take the sack off of his head, and come to terms with his freedom. She searched for Malo's violin and bow, and the useless lantern she had left behind. When she found them, she returned to the other three, and in her mind she dared either one of them to make a comment about a woman's sentiment.

No one did. The Priest held the very same candlestick she had used to free him, and the Doctor held the saw. It was good of them to find some form of weaponry, they still had to fight two more suitors. And one of them...

One of them would be _him._

"Come on." she lead them all to the library where they propped the secret door open with a candlestick, walked down the stairs, and were greeted with another phonograph.

Boldly, Clarice turned the handle. They stood there with baited breath waiting for the next message from the past.

"I wonder," mused Justine, "Is Father David with his god now? Maybe you helped him there. Don't you worry, I'm sure he didn't have a family, he probably wasn't even all that well liked. With the current political climate, I'm surprised someone hasn't killed him already." she remarked dismissively, "We can't all be saved—"

"But you just said—"

"Some people don't even want to be. Yes, that is a comforting thought—"

"WELL NOW IS A PERFECTLY LOVELY TIME TO TELL ME THAT!" Clarice screamed.

Something ahead of them heard that!

It was amusing that all three of _them_ should jump behind _her._ Clarice let her grip tighten on the lantern and jutted out her chin in strong determination. She would not let this get the best of her. Boldly, she stepped forward, still fueled by the rage of her initial outburst.

"Come on."

She grabbed Alois' collar and left the Doctor and the Priest with the option of either joining her or remaining behind. As she reached the door she heard them started to follow her. She stopped for a moment to make sure all of her ducks were in a row, so to speak, the Doctor had the violin, Alois still had his racket, but she was not sure what use they would get out of these things.

Then, she opened the door. She heard a dry, rough whine from somewhere in the darkness ahead of them, and saw all four of their shadows shrink back. Something was moving ahead of them, she heard something heavy being dragged across the floor, and chains clinking. Was it just her imagination, or were there bells ringing?

"I don't suppose any one is too keen on taking a breather?" she whispered, "I—I used up quite a bit of courage telling an imaginary employer off. It's quite used up now."

Whatever it was—it was probably a suitor—moving ahead of them noticed them, all four dove for cover at once, Clarice and Alois to the right, the doctor and Father David to the left. Fortunately, it was dark, so while whichever one it was, either Basile or Malo, they would not be able to see any one of them.

"You won't get away this time!" said an angry voice from the darkness across the room.

"That sounded like Basile." Clarice thought aloud, for Alois' benefit. The clinking of chains stopped for a moment, then resumed again, quickly this time.

Alois whimpered a bit and covered his mouth with a bloody hand. It was an unspoken warning. He's heard you. He's heard you.

She could not remain here and let Alois find him. Quickly, she ran forward and crouched down in a different hiding place, this time to a nook filled with potatoes, which, by the way, she would never eat if she knew they came from under this roof again. [1.] She picked one up and waited. Everything was silent except for Basile's movements and Alois's heavy breathing a few yards to her left. I occurred to her suddenly that regardless of she moved or not, Basile was going to hone in to Alois's hiding spot, unless she made more noise than he did. This would endanger herself.

She could always lob potatoes at him, of course.

She felt so isolated and scared, listening to the bells on Basile's collar chime and the chains on his ankles ring. It sounded like he was dragging something behind him. Something heavy. He seemed to moan in pain with every step he took.

Her eyes caught a moment in the dim light, and she was frozen, simply watching him. He was just as starved down as Alois, and probably just as blind. There was something large moving slowly behind him. With a grimace she saw the faint lines of three chains binding the block to him. In this dim light, Clarice could not see how this was done, but she was positive it would be very difficult to undo.

Alois's breathing seemed to be all around her at the moment, and even she forgot where he was because she was scared so stiff. This was not real. There was no way it could be. She was dreaming. She had to be. She was save and warm in her bed and she was just dreaming.

_What?_ She asked herself, _If this is a dream, you'll wake up and do something?_

That was a laugh. She had stood by at let this happen, and now that she was _seeing_ it, she was riled up against it. That was pathetic. That was hypocrisy. She had worked her entire life for the Florbelles, and when there was no one else to work she had lived solely for Justine. It had seemed to be too much, but now? Now it seemed like so little. What was she, really? She was nothing. She was a tiny _thing_, and she was not even important to the woman who employed her.

"Get over here." Basile said sternly, "I'll rip your head off."

She had to do something. She had found Alois and Basile when she had been the most curious about Malo, and now that she was certain each man was going to be more disfigured than the last, she wondered if there would even be a violinist left when she reached him. The darkness, the noise. It was too much for her to handle just sitting there, so, quite stupidly; she stood up and shouted, "I'm over here!"

But it was really more of a terrified, cracked squeak that would buy the others five more minutes. She was going to throw the potato at him, but someone else shouted, "NO!" from the darkness and stumbled out, knocking over a pile of boxes and making more noise than she had ever hoped too. In shock, she dropped the potato, nearly missing her own toe. She scooped up the lantern and stepped out.

"Over here!" she said, trying to sound like Justine, "Come and get me, Basile, mon Cherie!"

('That—' Basile would tell her a handful of years later, '—was the worst damn impression of Justine. It sounded like a fucking mouse.')

But right now he just gave her an angry roar and started to run forward, but he was pulled short by something, it was the weight on his back. He could not move too quickly, unless he tore the chains from his skin and Clarice knew that would be a bad idea. One of those things could be hooked around his spine. How could they get it off? Heat. A saw... The saw the Doctor had! That, at least, could get the weight off so he could move a bit more freely. Of course, if he could move freely, he was more of a danger to all four of them, and himself, probably. Of course if he was at risk for breaking his own spine, that would also make him a danger to himself.

"Basile!" Alois shouted, "That is _not_ Justine."

"So you'll save _him_ but not me?"

"No, Monsieur Griox." Clarice answered calmly, stepping forward, "Calm down, you'll be free soon enough."

He lurched forward, she stepped back at once.

_We can't all be saved._ Justine's voice echoed in her head, _some of us don't even want to be._

There were three curling decorations on his collar, but they served practical purposes as well, because hooked by a ring to each one was a rusty, grimy bell. Which, regardless of how grimy, prevented him from hearing smaller, softer noises as he walked.

"They can all be saved." Clarice hissed, standing firm, "There is always away."

"Mademoiselle, I really think we should _leave _him!" Doctor Founeir called.

"I'm not leaving anyone!"

"Child, it would be best if we —"

"So?" Basile growled, "You've brought _more_ with you? Just how many men to you have to torture to please yourself? You _bitch!"_

He lurched forward against, and Clarice screamed and jumped back, tripping over her own skirts and hitting her back against a wooden beam. He was held back by his own weight, and Alois grabbing blindly and curling his fingers around the metal horns of his collar.

"Basile!" he shouted, "Basile, listen to me! That is _not_ Justine. She is our friend. She will get us out of here."

Basile shoved him away, he went careening back into the darkness and Clarice heard something snap. He howled in pain and she saw his right hand slam into the floor to combat the pain. The man turned to her again and slowly made his way forward, "This isn't over!"

"Basile, I am not Justine!"

"You whore!"

Something snapped then. Clarice was not sure why, considering that she was normally very good-natured and something had snapped five minutes ago, but something snapped. It might have been because she was worried about how she would get through this, and dragging an unconscious Basile seemed like the best way, it might have been because she was filled with a horrible anxiety over how she would take care of them once she had gotten them _out_ of Justine's cellar, it might have been the reason she gave later.

She hit him with the lantern.

No, really, she did. She stood up, called him a despicable bastard, and hit him straight across the face with the useless, oil-less lantern. It had to be good for something, after all, why not slapping him one? He was knocked off balance for a while, his ribs catching the metal block he had been forced to carry around¸ where he couch and wheezed and tried to regain his breath. She heard glass fall to the ground with a few soft plinks and was glad to at least know that it was not _she_ who had blinded him. She heard Alois getting to his feet with a hiss of pain, and the other two coming closer, slowly.

Still, Basile tried to regain his breath.

"You hit him with the lantern!" Doctor Founeir exclaimed.

"He called me a whore!"

"You_ hit him with the lantern_?" Alois echoed.

"_He called me a whore_!"

"You hit me!" Basile said from the ground, "With something made of glass…"

"YOU CALLED ME A WHORE!" she shouted for the third time, this time snatching the saw from the doctor's hand. He and the priest both protested, as if she was some violent thing that was about to saw his head off, "Now just sit there while I try to get this… this _thing_ off of you."

It took longer than she had expected, working by the light of the torch, lit by one of the many tinderboxes she had picked up, and when she sawed through, it caused painful vibrations to shoot into his back, but she kept at it. Her arm and her fingers were sore by the end of it¸ too sore to even hold Malo's violin, but at least Basile was calmed and able to walk on his own, to an extent. It was quite interesting to watch him walk around a free man. He stumbled quite a few times and the others had to catch him.

They left the dark cellar into a brightly lit, short passageway. There were a few stairs leading down into a flooded chamber, and another phonograph. Clarice bit down on her lip, and slowly, she turned the handle.

Once again, it was Justine's voice, "I'm sure you are figuring out by now how it all works. Are you enjoying my little quips? I think they are quite clever." She sounded like she was trying not to laugh, "Not that I was ever much of a conversationalist, poetry has always been my forte. But I digress, you should press on, it will all be over soon. Also, the police are here. Maybe _they_ can help you."

Basile roared angrily, lashed out towards the noise and knocked the phonograph over.

"Well played, big guy." Clarice said calmly, stepping away and shielding the others with her body.

* * *

[1.] Alternatively, the entire game is just one big fetch quest and Justine is _literally_ supposed to get a potato or two for dinner. And she always, always, fails.


	4. Chapter 3

Amnesia: Clarice.

(Disclaimed.)

I don't know whether to be pleased or annoyed by the fact that my suite mate automatically calls for my help at the first sign of a cricket.

* * *

_Perhaps she had killed a good maid, perhaps she had kill a best friend, maybe even a dear sister. She had killed a lot of people. All she could do was sit in repose and wait._

Chapter three:

What was left of her dress, she had left by the water's edge, what could be used, had been used, and now she sat against the wall in nothing but her corset and the better half of her drawers. What was left of her clothes that was not lace had been torn into makeshift bandages and used for the purpose of modesty and to treat the few injuries they had accumulated; Alois had broken his arm, and there were raw patches on his arms and legs from where his chains had rubbed him raw. In the better light, she had looked at the metal collar and tried to find a way to get it off that did _not_ involve bringing a saw close to his neck, but all she found on both his collar and Basile's was a bolt that was rusted in place, and none of them had the strength to move either one of them.

Still, Alois and Basile were both free of their chains, for the most part, and what had been embedded in skin was tied down with scraps of her dress to keep them from moving too much. And the water, though probably not the best, as she had Alois had both commented, had been a comfort everyone had been denied for quite some time.

She pulled from the pile beside her an unusable length of lace from her dismantled petticoat and draped it around her shoulders. If there was nothing but water up ahead, recycling her dress was probably the best thing she had done. It would only weigh her down in the water. She would be quite cold when she got out, of course, but she would dry off soon enough.

The hand that did not hurt from sawing at chains plucked at Malo's violin forlornly. She stared at the door a head and wished that she could hear something, anything, even a fit of insane laughter, but she heard nothing. Nothing at all. She just plucked at the instrument now to take the edge off the silence. After all, the small passageway no longer echoed with the sound of a rusty saw cutting through and equally rusty chains, and she was overcome with the hollow feeling accompanying silence after a great deal of noise.

She drew her makeshift shawl tighter around her with her sore hand, and looked back at the group. They had all fallen asleep. They must be weary, after all, none of them had eaten in quite some time, and the only refreshment they had had been questionable water. She would have boiled it if she had been able to make a fire and had a clean vessel to do it in, but she had neither one.

Perhaps, if they were fortunate, no harm would come of it.

Of course, she should not call upon the powers of fortune at a time like this. She wanted to wake them. They had been sleeping for what seemed like an eternity, but she had no mark to the passage of time, aside from the slowly melting candles. She was torn between finding Monsieur De'Vinny and letting them rest. Perhaps she herself should close her eyes. She did feel tired.

She lay down, her feet to the water, curling up with Malo's violin cradled to her chest.

She dreamed about the time she and Justine had watched that bird eat the snail along the garden wall. Justine had seemed so strong and fearless then, while Clarice herself could scarcely believe anything as beautiful and as a bird could do something so cruel. Of course, she had grown up, and learned that birds were capable of eating the flesh of dead humans, sometimes even _live_ ones if they looked dead enough, and like rats, they always went for the eyes first.

So, of course, in the dream, after comforting her, Justine herself was transformed into a great sable crane, and Clarice had become so small, ungraceful, an insignificant compared to her it almost consumed her. She had tried to run, but she found chains were wrapping around her legs like snakes, and as she turned, that great crane stooped its dark neck, and plucked out her eyes.

She awoke just as one would from a regular dream, though. No blind panic, no cold sweat, just a small little gasp as her eyes snapped open. She noticed a particularly sour violin chord, but realized it had simply been her playing it because her hand twitched in the dream. It had been the jolt she needed to wake her up, it was not until she realized everyone else was awake too, that she noticed that the chord was actually echoing across the small passage. All heads—even the blind ones—turned to her reproachfully and she gathered up her makeshift shawl in embarrassment, "S-sorry." she muttered, still clutching the instrument to her heart. When the expressions on their faces had made it quite clear that they would be unable to return to sleep, she got to her feet and rubbed her eyes.

"We press on." Clarice informed them, "Father, if you would take these scraps of cloth, and try to keep them dry."

Gradually, they followed her lead of standing, not out of reluctance but out of weariness. It was hard to remain plucky at a time like this, and she had never seen herself as plucky to begin with. Boldly, Clarice opened the water-worn door. It was freezing, that water! Like _ice, _it was! In the places that there was light, she could feel slippery green algae growing on the stones. The water swirled in the wake of the door, and nearly knocked the party off their tired feet.

Still, they gritted their teeth and put up with the cold in the promise of freedom and an end to this nightmare. For her, the _real_ nightmare had just begun. She tried _not_ to wish Malo would hurry and show up, but that was exactly how she felt. She wanted to see him, so no matter how horrible it was, she would still have it out of the way. She searched high and low for the answers in the knee -deep water and along the dank walls. She found nothing, nothing but a mechanical door with a broken lever.

She searched the water at their feet for the lever, but could not find it. Then, she deliberated with herself over which way was more likely to hide a mangled suitor, and which was more likely to hide a lever. She chose the pathway to her left, and trudged through the knee-deep cold towards a door which proved nearly impossible to open, but she managed it. She found a room with many boxes stacked up in the water¸ and a table, which had suffered considerable water damage. That room lead to another, with a second damaged table, and boxes floating everywhere. She pushed past those, Malo's violin still in hand, and found a spare lever on the table. Next to it was another one of Justine's little written taunts.

She did not want to pick it up. It would contain something about either Basile or Malo, or perhaps Alois again. She did not really want to know what _Justine _thought of this mess, it would only give her more reason to dislike her mistress, and if there was one thing it was not smart to do, it was make enemies with your employer. She bit down on her lip as she watched it laying still in the candlelight, then, quickly, she snatched it up.

_Basile provided quite the challenge, but I had a special, improved set of restrains made for him. Alois has managed to learn how to locate me by sound, and I took this into consideration when designing Basile's bonds. The collar is essentially one used to humiliate slaves in the new world, made to limit the movement of the head and create constant noise while walking. It is generally used for slaves prone to run away or consider themselves equal to their masters._

_A fitting punishment for Basile, putting himself on the same level as me!_

_No, _above_ me. He was simply here to pursue a sexual relationship with me, and while I do not really care either way, he should be punished for this. I am not a prize, after all, and he does not want me, he wants Alois and Malo to not have me._

_Regardless, he shall be chained like Alois, simply weighted down. However, his aggressive nature prompted me to do something else to hinder and restrain him. I heard tell of a tradition among the native savages in the new world¸ where a young man's shoulders would be pierced, but only the skin, and a heavy skull would be bound to him, he would be forced to drag it with him, or tear out the crude bone hooks to prove his manhood._

_That, too, suits Basile._

She moved to stuff it in her apron pocket, but realized that the notes must have been left behind with the rest of her torn dress, so instead she stuffed it down her corset and hoped it would not suffer any water damage while safely tucked between silk and skin.

When she joined them again, it had occurred to her that if Malo had been living down here, he had probably developed a bad case of gangrene while sludging through this water... which they had _consumed_... and... And it was really best not to think about it at the moment.

She jammed the lever into the empty space and pulled down. The door rose up out of the water as the lever freed a gear, which turned more wheels, which pulled on a chain, which probably turned more wheels. The party stood there, those that had eyes were following the small clicks and clinks put to the ceiling and along the wall down the hallway, which lead to the locked door.

There was a dull thunk.

And then there was a startled and ghastly roar.

She was rooted to the spot, her heart pounding; she turned to the direction of the noise, "M-Malo? Malo de'Vinny?"

"Yes!" Alois said, "Malo. Come, trust us. You can't help him."

"They can all—"

"I'm pretty sure Malo was _not_ included there." Basile informed her frankly.

"Well, neither were _you_!" she shot back, trying to wrench free of their hands.

Somehow, blindly, the two had forced her to walk through the door as Doctor Founeir pulled down on the next lever and let it fall with a quick slam. She heard the lever splash to the floor. She reached out uselessly. He was trapped on the other side now. The five of them gathered at the center of this new chamber, a raised platform, dry and lit by torches. She could hear someone else churning through the water now. There were two doors, the Doctor took Alois to the right, and Father David guided Basile to the left, leaving Clarice alone, the violin gripped painfully in her hands.

_Malo._ He had played the violin so well, and had entertained Justine and her two suitors for many hours many months ago. She had always paused in her work to hide where no one could see her and simply watch him and marvel at his slim, talented fingers, deftly bringing music on the page to life. She felt a faint blush enter her cheeks at the memory, despite the hissed calls from the four men around her. She snapped back to reality and steadied her stance. If Malo was ever going to play again, he would need all of the courage she could muster.

It did not matter to her what had been done. He could be blind and she would not care. She just wanted to see everyone safe, maybe him a little more than the other two.

"_I grow tired_..." she heard a voice hiss, "_of my own flesh!_"

She pressed her free hand against a pillar for support (was that not their purpose? Support?) willing the other four to hide and keep quiet. She heard Basile and Alois both franticly motioning for her to join them in hiding, but neither one could not see her silently refuse.

Then, Malo began to pound at the door. "_Justine!_"

_BANG!_

_"Let me taste you!"_

"Clarice, please!" Alois hissed barely above the banging.

"Get over here!" Basile ordered, not even bothering with secrecy.

"I'll be fine!" she said waving them away, hoping no one could see the fear in her eyes or hear it in her voice.

"Child, quickly."

"It's for the best."

_BANG!_

_"JUSTINE!"_

"He's—not—blind!"

"W-what?"

"JUSTINE!"

_BANG!_

Clarice whipped her head back to the quickly crumbling door. And she heard a wicked, warped memory of bright airy laughter. Sure enough, his eyes were not white, but a sparkling green. The grime and mess and her complete _terror_ only served to make them brighter.

"I seeee you." He taunted.

She began to notice other things. First was his mouth. He had always had such a bright smile, but now it seemed to really reach from one ear to the next, and with a chill of fright she realized that it did! Justine had cut his cheeks open from the corner of his mouth and had roughly sewn him back again. She raised her hands to her face and made one small step back, her mouth open wide as if to scream, but she could not. She could only force out a small, "They can all be saved."

He began to walk forward, and she noticed his posture next. While he had always been one for stage presence, he had in private life a bit of a slouch. _Something_ was keeping him down, and she soon saw it, it was a weight on his neck, dangling from a chain, and a long, rigid second spine pressing his back. That second spine seemed to be making him bleed with every step.

"_Bonjour~!_"

"They can all be saved."

Then, she noticed a bunch of things at once: the tooth marks on his arms which had turned purple and the distinct smell of decay, but she could not tell where it was coming from, and the fact that for a starved man that was hunched over and probably didn't have much to speak of in the ways of _feet_ he was moving very fast and she was hardly moving at all.

She backed away on instinct, falling down into the water and soaking her drawers through, and ruining the note. Black ink spilled from the note and stained the inside of her corset and her skin. She got to her feet quickly, scrambling for the violin, which had seen better days but it was the only comfort or weapon she had at the moment. Where was it?

It was on the platform still. She must have dropped in shock without seeing it. Malo did not even seem to see it. He was looking straight at her. Well, this was what she had always wanted. It was just a shame it had to be like this in the end.

"They can all be saved!"

"Hide and seek." He laughed, "Hide and seek."

"Malo!" she said, boldly climbing back up and hoping that a firm voice would snap him out of his delirum. "Listen to me!"

It _didn't_. He just pounced on her and slammed her back into the pillar, knocking the wind out of her and pinning her against it. She was staring that the burning touch for a moment, and her eyes caught a small cage hanging from the ceiling, the kind for dead bodies, swinging hypnotically.

Then, she felt _teeth_ digging into her neck. This time, she really did scream, but he had bitten into the whale bone of her corset strap, so he had not been able to do much damage. It was more from fear than anything, but yeah, it did hurt. "They can all be saved." she reminded herself through the pain, her hand reaching out blindly, searching for the strings that were just out of her reach, "_There is always a way!_"

Malo's teeth dug into her shoulder again, this time actually doing some damage. And as much as she wanted to stop and contemplate the irony, she could not. Sure, she had always _wanted_ him on top of her, his face buried in her shoulder, driven to a passion, but not in the sewers. Not when she was a mess and not when he was trying to eat her. She still had the bow in her hand, so with a little remorse, she screamed and jammed it upwards into his diaphragm. He was forced to open his mouth to gasp for air and she managed to push him away. He staggered back to the other end of the platform, where he made the astounding observation.

"You... You aren't Justine!"

"No!" Clarice answered, "I am _not_ Justine."

He did not seem to care again. There was a hunger burning deep in his eyes, and she was probably the most appetizing thing in the room. He lunged for her. She jumped out of his reach and grabbed the cage hanging from the ceiling. His hand snatched her ankle, but somehow she managed to shake him off. The world swam she swung out over the water turned to face Malo on her way back down. He could see, unlike the other two, so he managed to duck and avoided being hit. Howling, he vainly swiped at her ankles again. She gasped and climbed up the cage, and when she feared he could still reach her, she scrambled up the chain, and it pinched the skin of her hands as the links shifted and twisted, but she did not cry out. She was out of his reach now.

She held onto the chain with all of her might, climbing up even higher so that her feet were on the top of the cage. The arc of the swing had come to a stall now, and she was now just hanging there, out of his reach. she wondered if he could climb up with her, but knew that the chains weighing him down would most likely prevent it. Good. That was for the best.

Oh, poor Malo!

The cage had stopped swinging completely now. He was eyeing her like a dog would eye a choice cut of meat. It was not helping that the cage was spinning lazily and that she was in her underclothes. No. Not that did not help one bit. As much as she had _wanted_ Malo to look at her that way, now she was terrified out of her wits.

And this was the girl that had chased after Alois and had _dared_ to confront Basile.

Speaking of Basile, he and the Father were walking before her with a gear, where Malo could not see them. She saw the good Doctor sneaking forward to help them, and she felt a little comfort, then. They were going to help her get through this. All she had to do was help Malo. All she had to do was give them time.

"I... I always liked you best!" she found herself sobbing, partly for the noise, partly because she needed too. "I... I never wanted Justine to court you because I always liked you best!"

He stepped back. Basile and Father David froze for a second, for fear he would turn completely and see them, "I... was so lonely!" she pumped out for the moment. She had to keep him occupied. "Everyone else she had employed quit because they were afraid, but I was more afraid of being called a coward than being put down here, So... So I remained... But I was so lonely! I had to do so much! I was working so hard to keep the place looking nice and... And you were the only one that ever complemented my cooking! And... And... And now we're all going to die here! Why do we all have to die here?"

Almost there! With very little subtlety, she swung herself a bit, making the chain squeak. He jumped at the noise and leaned in. She kept talking.

"It... It wasn't right... what Miss Justine did to you. She... She got you drunk on absinthe, just before the concerto. I saw her slip some into your glass. Malo... Malo you were such a good violin player. Even if it was a happy song you could always bring tears to my eyes. It was because you were playing for Mademoiselle Justine, not for me and I knew you'd never play for me... Malo... Malo I just want to get out of here, Malo. I just want to save you. Malo... I'm so scared."

She buried her face in her arms, because the others had vanished, and she was not sure if she was going to make it out of this one. She was not sure she wanted too, anymore. Now that she had seen that Malo had resorted to consuming his own flesh to survive. She cried so she could not see the freshly bleeding tooth marks on Malo's arms. She heard wood scraping stone, though, and heard metal chains tapping against the floor.

"This... This is mine." He whispered, kneeling on the floor, holding the violin in diseased hands. He searched for the bow, and eventually found it. It was painful to watch him try to tuck it under his chin, only to have the metal collar get in his way, and the chain that bound his hands was the perfect length for keeping him from playing. He started crying, too, curling up on himself.

"M-malo?"

He fixed his eyes on her again.

"You... You won't hurt anyone now, right?"

His eyes narrowed, and she climbed a little higher, because that was not an acceptable answer. She saw the others gathered at the door way on the right side of the room, but did not do or say anything. There was a moment of pressing silence and she watched Malo watch her turning slowly in front of him.

Basile deliberately sloshed the water.

Malo turned.

Maybe it was because he was starving. Maybe it was because he saw his hated romantic rival in a weakened state. Maybe it was because he had gotten desperate and foolish. Maybe it was all three. He saw a target that was easier than her, and he went for it.

"No!" she screamed, "Malo, No!"

Basile did not flinch. She heard Alois screaming and asking why things had to turn out like this, after they had gotten so far. She heard Doctor Founeir shout, "Now!"

Basile swung blindly.

Malo crumpled.

"The can _all_ be saved." he said, swaggering, "I didn't hear it from that bitch. I heard it from you."

Rather inelegantly, she tumbled down to the platform again, scraping herself quite a bit as she did so. She walked towards them, and helped them loop Malo's bound hands around the necks of herself And Doctor Founeir, because the disturbed violinist was completely out cold, "It was a miracle you did not miss."

"No. It's a miracle he's so easy to knock out." Basile told her as she opened the next door, she did not bother closing this one. No one was chasing them, after all, why bother?

They trudged through the water for a few more minutes, and Clarice's panic began to subside, but so did her courage. So much so that she jumped and screamed in shock when he heard a voice exclaim:

"Hey! You there! Help me, and I'll summon my men to save us from this hell hole!"

She saw the man at once, of course. He was chained to the wall in a dry side chamber. If she could place the voice, she would say it was the missing inspector, and reasoning would confirm her conclusion, for she could think of no other. She sloshed towards him, bringing Malo and the Doctor with her, saying cheerfully, "Oh, don't worry I've got plenty of men!"

"Eh?"

"Come, Doctor, I trust you still have your saw. Let's free the Good Inspector and be on our way."

* * *

Has anyone noticed that Malo's voice actor went, like waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay over the top? Its the way his voice sounds that made me think. 'Oh, Justine carved his face or something, so he sounds weird.' Also, he needs a slasher smile. Which he now has. Or, perhaps a... _slashed smile, lolwut?_


	5. Chapter 4

Amnesia: Clarice.

(Disclaimed.)

Now would actually be a good time to point out that I don't really know what the map lay out looks like at this point. Don't write in.

-Also, I have NO IDEA what the walls say. No one has it written down, and no one has a video clear and slow enough for me to see.

* * *

_She fidgeted in her personal sitting room. Why was time so slow suddenly?_

Chapter four:

"That..." Inspector Marot said as they all sat down in the dry hallway just beyond the flooded dungeon sometime later, "Is quite an interesting statement, to say the _least_, Mademoiselle Laurent. You weave a good yarn."

"Thank you." She said, tying another strip of her dress around Malo's arm, "But it's not _all _false."

"Well, of course not, and we've all got the scars that could damn well prove it." He said.

"We could sit here and sing her praises all day." Alois said, "But we should press on."

He was right. She got to her feet and took Malo's arm, hooking it over her shoulders. Inspector Marot took the other and together they dragged him through the long hallway.

Some idiot—probably Justine—had the nerve of leaving at least three piles of _stuff_ in their path, which the others had to move aside so that they could pass. Clarice just worried about what they would do if Malo woke up while they were stuck down here. Of course, the other option was that he would _never_ wake up and then what would she do?

_Come one, Clarice, you've done so much, he won't die on you._

There were stairs next, to add insult to injury. She took Malo's shoulders and the Inspector took his legs, and between the two of them, they managed to carry him up through the door held open by the others and to the next room, which contained only a phonograph.

After she gave him a nod, the doctor had the honor of turning the handle.

"Inspector Marot, are _you _still with us?" Justine asked toyingly, "I'm looking forward to see if you managed to save him or not. I know very little about him, but surely he had a family? Poor, poor fatherless children. But he falls on his own sword. His kind is not meant to come for people like me. Laws are made for cretins, the aristocracy doesn't need to know right from wrong, we are always right."

"And that's why we had the Revolution." Inspector Marot grumbled, then, even softer he said, "My wife must be worried sick about me, I did not even send her a rose before this happened."

While Clarice knew nothing about this, she did not ask, because Inspector Marot might not care to discuss it. She steadied her grip, on arm around Malo's waist, the other on his wrist. The smell was about to make her retch, also, the cuts on the sides of his face had begun to bleed again, she could see it staining her corset, and that was fairly disgusting. She glanced behind them, wondering if any of his toes had been callously dragged off. She had gotten a good look at his feet, and they were showing the begging signs of gangrene. It might heal on its own time when exposed to light and warmth.

There was no point in thinking about it. The Doctor opened the door into the crypt for them, and the party of seven flooded in.

"Watch your step. The floor is covered in holes." Father David informed them¸ "And they are probably ours."

Unmarked graves? Clarice shivered while walking on through the soft dirt. It was quite now, muted. They were closer to the surface now, the cavern-like echoes were gone. She knew they were close now, before all this had happened, the master had frequented the crypt, and there was no way Justine had moved it..

Something _papery_ crunched under her foot. She looked down, and let go of Malo for a moment to pick it up. The Inspector lost his balance and toppled on top of her. Everyone jumped, exclaimed in terror, and looked at them. Clarice had the wind knocked out of her from the impact, but she looked at the note in the thin light while Inspector Marot picked himself up, swearing at her, and taking his half of Malo again, this time at a crouch. She was too busy reading, her hands shaking.

_I am quite proud of what I did to Malo. I was not as reserved as I was with Basile or as unsure as I was with Alois._ _I applied serious thought to what I would do with him. For starters, I did not blind him. __In his reflective environment, the fact that I left his eyes untouched will only serve to torment him more_._ I felt obligated to spare his eyes, anyway. How many people have green eyes?_

_But, this was not the end, because I knew if one wanted to avoid their reflection, they would simply do it. I had to find a way to force him to look downward, and I found it in an altered slave collar from ancient china. There is a rigid tail down his spine, which I made even more painful with sharp barbs that dig into his skin just below his shoulder blades and above his kidneys, this prevents him from standing up strait, however, for an added effect, I added a weight to the front of the collar, the two work against each other to keep his torso immobile. To prevent his head from moving, I added a small spike to the upper edge of the collar that would dig into the last joint before his spine meets his skull, so he cannot easily look ahead._

_This would have been more than enough, but I knew that if I was going to force him to look at his own reflection, I would have to give him something interesting to look at. I made two cuts through his cheeks from the corners of his mouth, giving him a much wider grin, then I added slits from his nostrils, accentuating the 'cat-like face' Clarice is so drawn too._

_He was only after my money. It was what he deserved. If Clarice had not been so fond of him, he never would have been drawn into my web and I would not have to do that._

_Was it... Just to spite Clarice? Was that honestly why I did it? I knew that she could hear him__ screaming, and the thought that I was torturing her as well as him filled me with a feeling of triumph. But, why? What had she done to me?_

She crumpled it and threw it aside. Now it was the Inspector's turn to drop Malo, "That's evidence!" he exclaimed, diving for the note, "Keep it with you."

She stared at the crumpled piece of paper and she wanted to slap the inspector, but instead she just snatched it from him and stuffed it down her front, just like the ruined letter regarding Basile. The letters regarding Alois and herself were gone. Clarice knew she had put one them in her apron pocket, but she had forgotten to clean it out before tearing it into strips.

Oh well.

She gathered up Malo again and looked around. There were seven unmarked graves, actually, one of each of them, and one, Clarice noticed with a frown, for herself. There was the Master's grave, and one for Madame, but the master's grave had not been filled. She stared at it for a moment, the half-decayed corpse grinned back. Monsieur Florbelle had very disturbing teeth.

"I can't believe he hasn't even been buried yet."

"The grave digger got the spooks." Clarice told him. "We should rest again. I want to bury him, now that we have a proper preacher for it."

"I don't want to waste any more time." The inspector said, "We can always come back down here."

"But—" Clarice started, "It—it won't take too long."

"Fine!"

She let the Doctor take Malo, and picked up the shovel, where she began to fill the gaping black hole with loose dirt. Father David watched for a moment, then began to recite the proper words. He faltered a bit, as if he had forgotten in his captivity, but he eventually remembered and the verse flowed smoothly again. She kept burying him while the other watched. Inspector Marot muttered, "He won't stay knocked out forever, you know."

"He'll stay out long enough." Clarice responded, she had filled the hole completely by this point, and patted the dirt down, then she propped the shovel against the wall, crossing her chest and kneeling down.

She prayed again for a moment, for everyone, but she knew that Alois and Basile would never get their sight back, and Malo would always be insane. So would Justine. And Justine was going to face the law now. She deserved it, though. She really, honestly deserved it, and Clarice did not need or want convincing otherwise. She remained to think for another moment, of what would take priority after getting out. Medical treatment should be first and foremost, but a meal was probably in good order, too.

There was so much to do. What time was it? How long had she been down here. It was probably early morning. What if Justine was sitting there, waiting to frame her for this?

It was time to move again. She got to her feet and took Malo back from Doctor Founeir and urged the others on to the other phonograph, which once again, the doctor turned.

"Well done," Justine informed them. "You have triumphed. Conquered my cabinet."

_Everyone_ sighed with relief.

"I wish I could tell you how you did, but alas this is a recording. You will have to figure it all by yourself. Did anyone survive? The doctor? The priest? Or perhaps the police man? Who was allowed to live? Why? You should really reflect on these past even and consider what they meant to you, what you have learned about your true nature.

It was silent for a while. Clarice urged the others on, thinking Justine had fallen silent, but when they were gone, she heard her voice still talking. "Father never knew me, he thought he did, but then he was frightened and nothing was ever the same again. I can still see him, lying there on the floor, he looked so surprised." She took a breath and said from memory, "The star shaped soapstone, stained by his blood, fell to the floor with a sonorous thud. Blame me not, for I was but a child. With careful ambition, I dared a smile."

Then, as if really realizing what she had done, she said softly, "Rest in peace, papa."

"Was... Was that a confession?" Inspector Marot asked her over Malo's bowed head, "_She_ killed him?"

A stone dropped in her lower intestine. She froze for a moment, her hands tightening. Inspector Marot could sense her fear. Even if he could not smell it, he could certainly feel it.

"Yes." Clarice answered him. She did not want to betray her mademoiselle, but she knew it was for the best. "Yes, she did."

He huffed, "We could have avoided _this_ if she had been found guilty sooner."

Clarice did not say a word. Justine had been about twelve or eleven when she had done that, and no one would throw a child that young into a jail, a mad house, maybe, but Justine did not need to be put in either one. Clarice just needed to keep a closer eye on her. That was all.

"Please tell me that's not blood." She said as she and the inspector carried Malo into the tunnels that lead down into the crypt.

"As you wish, Mademoiselle."

"It's just a very suspicious red."

There were messages. _Everywhere_. Clarice had to slow down to read all of them, and even then most of them were bits of nonsense that she would never remember when she woke up tomorrow, but they were deeply frightening at the time. Of course, it was quite easy to imagine Mademoiselle Justine walking down the hallways with a can of bright red paint and a brush, writing strange phrases and random words.

'It will be the end of everything.' Read one section of wall, and right next to it, 'I'm alive' and 'I'm emerging' sometime later. Out of the corner of her eye she could have sworn she saw¸ 'There is no point in dancing.' Or perhaps 'I will never stop dancing.' Of course, Justine never danced. Not even at formal occasions. She had two left feet, if it could be believed!

Clarice stopped paying attention after that and decided that most of everything was nonsense. She focused instead of carrying Malo, for she was growing quite tired and he very heavy. She focused on keeping him upright and keeping up with the others.

The only one who seemed really intrigued by all of this was Doctor Founeir, and Clarice considered telling him that he could attempt to decode the messages for the rest of his life, but it was just Justine trying to get into their heads and mess everything up. Besides, in this light she could not tell if the words on one message were 'it pleases me' or 'he praises me.' She did, however, pick up 'gluttony' and one point, and written very clearly on the stone in white was 'plummet through the ancient city.'

'Playful' was right across from it, make of that what you will.

But, just past it, was another door, which opened up to a room with gears in the wall. There was one other door, which Clarice and the inspector headed towards, but she must have triggered something by stepping on it, because she heard a sharp thunk in the walls and then several series of loud clatters. They looked around for one tense moment. Nothing happened. It was just a slow clatter.

"I know..." Clarice muttered to herself, "I _know_ this sound. It's the sound I always here before Mademoiselle returns! Oh, we're almost out... We're—Oh CHRIST! The walls are moving!"

"Now that you see what I truly am, what will you do, Clarice?" Justine's voice asked above the clatter of their impending demise. "Send me to hang? I don't think so. You are not one to judge me."

"Come on!" she made a mad dash for the opposite door, throwing it open in desperation, but a small wooden door did not stop a heavy stone wall. It was thrown off its hinges and blocked off before anyone could get through.

Someone pulled her back, and she, the Inspector, and Malo, went tumbling into the opposite wall, but that did not stop its advance. She saw Doctor Founeir trying to open the one remaining door, but it was locked, and Alois could not break it down, neither could Basile.

"It can't end like this!" she screamed, "It just can't. Justine, how the hell could you do this?"  
There was a way out. There was a way. She just had to find it. She had to find it fast. She looked around on the floor, and all she saw were a few bricks and one box. On the ceiling there was a dummy with a phonograph stuck in its mouth. She stood on the box and tried to pull it down. No luck.

In one last act of defiance, Clarice picked up a brick and threw it at the gears.

It snapped in two.

After a sudden, blinding pain?

Blackness.

* * *

"Mademoiselle?"

"Can you hear us, child?"

"Is she... dead?"

"No." she heard Alois' voice, "If this is her wrist, she's alive. She's got a pulse." She felt two fingers on the inside of her wrist for a moment. Alois let go and she felt his hand on her neck, "She's alive."

"But she's not breathing!"

As if to contradict the doctor, she drew in a startled breath, the kind that one would take if they had been sleeping without breathing. She coughed and sat up, and the other jumped back, startled, except for Alois, who remained unshaken, "Told you. But she's probably concussed. Clarice, can you walk?"

"How—How long have I been out?" she asked as she got to her feet, she reached out for something, but did not find anything that would grant her support.

"About two minutes."

"What happened?"

"You threw a brick at the cogs. Not the smartest choice, really."

"Are we... dead?"

"No!" Alois said again, sounding almost annoyed now, "I _told_ you. You have a pulse. You can't be alive when the rest of us are dead, now can you?"

"N-no." Clarice answered, "I suppose I can't."

She managed to get her feet then, unsteady, though. Her head pounded and swam and danced circles around her body for a moment, and she nearly fell over again¸ but she managed to catch herself on the wall. She panted for a moment, "What... What's wrong with me?"

"You hit your head!" Alois replied, "Don't tell me you've forgotten already. Are you feeling off balance? Can you hear? Can you see?"

"The answer to all of those is yes."

"Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Sure. I'm Clarice Laurent. I just saved your life."

Alois was kneeling on the floor where Clarice had fallen, and she could see Malo sprawled out beside him, too. Inspector Marot was sitting there with Father David, watching her standing stock still. Basile and the Doctor were standing by the door, waiting for the others to move on. She could hardly stand on her own, and she realized this with certain terror as she removed her hand from the support of the stone wall. She was not about to let them know about it, though. She took two confident steps and promptly fell over into the stone again.

Alois exclaimed in shock and the other two men stood up to help her to her feet. Orienting by sound, however, he got there first, "You two get Malo. It's time we got out of here."

She was the eyes, and Alois was the balance, and together they managed to get up the stairs and into the side parlor Clarice knew so well. She stopped for a moment and looked around. Her eyes fell on the clock.

It was six in the morning.

Justine had drugged her at about ten at night.

That was eight hours.

"Where to?" Alois asked, "I can't see a thing."

"To the kitchen. We can eat, rest and wash up there. I will have to run into town as soon as possible, to get a doctor."

"You won't need a doctor." Alois said, "You've already got one—"

"Damnit, man, I'm a psychologist, not a—"

"I was referring to myself." Alois stated calmly.

"You're a doctor? I thought you were a raquetball player!"

"It was badminton... and a social club." Alois said "Now, Mademoiselle, I need you to be my eyes¸ and I need you to follow my instructions very carefully. I do not know if you kept my things, but hidden in my trunk you will find a set of surgical tools as well as silk thread. I need those, use the code seven nine seven..."

"But the code is seven eight seven."

"No. Nine opens the secret compartment, eight the main trunk. Go there as quickly as you can and retrieve the tools and come back to the kitchen. We will need a good work space, plenty of fresh bandages and hot water."

"How are you going to manage this if you're _blind?"_

_"_You are a _maid_ I trust you know the herridgeborne stitch."

"Yes."

"Hold on, she can't walk in a straight line, and you're asking her to go get her surgical tools?" Basile said, "No, let one of the others get it."

"But Clarice is the only one who knows where it is."

"I—I moved it to the servants' parlor. No one uses it any more. It's in the east wing on the first floor."

She tried to walk on her own, but she fell again, supporting herself on the table. She refused help, "After that, you all have to be cleaned up. Alois: you, Basile and Malo have clothes in the kitchen... I'll think of something to do for the other three."

She staggered to the other side of the house and opened the chest, using the combination Alois had told her. In a leather case, there was a comprehensive surgeons kit, just like he had said. Clarice grabbed it and slammed the trunk again. It echoed around the house, and Clarice could have _sworn_ she heard a woman's gasp. She looked at the ceiling, "That's _right_ Justine. I'm still alive."

While she was there, she opened the main compartment and took out more of Alois' clothing, because at this point, they were all about the same size, and if anything Inspector Marot would need to go into town.

Filled with a new vigor, she got to her feet again and walked back into the kitchen, where Alois was still having things set up for the operation. The Inspector and Doctor Founeir were spreading a clean sheet over the center countertop, and another one had been set aside to be cut into strips later. There was an open bottle of strait whiskey, the kind Clarice had set away for only the direst of circumstances, and she was almost embarrassed that she had it. There was a pot of water boiling on the stove behind him.

"Clarice, wash your hands and get some clean towels."

"Yes sir."

She washed her hands out by the pump, where Father David was helping Basile to wash up, and went back inside and fetched the towels, like she had been told. She set them on the butter churn, which had become a makeshift table for the time being. Alois' case of tools she laid open on the counter top, and awaited further instructions.

Alois had already cleaned his hands, and he splashed the whiskey over his freshly bleeding cuts and raw wrists. He cringed briefly, then told her, "B-bring me the scissors."

"Why?" she asked, handing them to him. He splashed he alcohol on them as well, and gave them to her. "Start cutting the sheets up." He instructed. She did as she was told, cutting them into thin, precise strips, until Basile came in again. She took what she had cut and hoped they were clean enough.

"Lay him on his stomach." she said, "On the center table."

"Clean the tools, and your hands, with the whiskey. It's the strongest sanitizer we've got."

She obeyed all of his orders, then for good measure threaded the needle with the silk thread and cleaned it with alcohol early so it would dry.

"But, she's a _woman_."

"I've slaughtered animals." Clarice breathed, "I can cut you open once or twice."

In the fire light and the two candles held by Inspector Marot and Doctor Fourneir, she could clearly see the three hooks in his back. They were just in the skin, that was all there was too it, but they had been in there so long, that the skin had grown _around_ the hooks, so they would be impossible to get out without cutting them out.

"We'll have to cauterize the wounds, then?" she asked after giving Alois this information and being greeted by silence.

"No. No, we can bandage it. He should be fine. Now, be careful, don't cut too deep or you'll take muscle with you, then he'll have impaired mobility—"

"No!" she shouted, stepping away, "No, no! I won't do this! We need a professional surgeon, one that's not blind!"

"Do you have any idea how long that will take?"

"You said you slaughtered things. You know the difference between skin and muscle. Human skin is just a little thinner than pig skin. You can do this."

She stepped back again, considering this, then she drove the scalpel into Basile' skin above the hook, and cut all the way through to the metal. No muscle. She carved the skin away and tried to ignore the fact that the other three had to actively fight to restrain him. That was one.

"Faster." Alois told her calmly, "You have to work faster."

She picked up the pace for the second one, and managed to get the third one out even faster. After daubing the the wounds with a towel dripped in whiskey—which Basile did not like at all—they bound his chest tightly with strips of cloth.

Getting the chains out of his legs? Not so easy. It was tedious, and she could not work when he was kicking against the pain. It was just barely in, the first length must have been placed in an open wound, which must have been burned shut. She cut it away quickly, then it was time for the collar, which was quite a quandary, considering that she had to go out into the garden shed to fetch a wrench and unscrew the bolt, but she could have sworn up down and sideways that it would a have been more of a battle to keep him from bleeding out. There was just a red, raw spot on his neck which was easily covered by a white strip of cloth and sewn into place, so it was almost indistinguishable under his collar. Clarice fetched his clothes from the pantry, but he just pulled on his trousers to help hold down Alois.

"We can wait..." Clarice said, stepping back.

"No!" he said firmly, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back, "You _told_ me to man up, Clarice, and that exactly what I am doing. Make the cut, Mademoiselle."

It was a simple matter by that point to take out the chains, which were embedded in his skin the exact same way as it had been for Basile, and the collar came off just as easily. He did still thrash about, and Clarice knew it must be horribly painful for him.

But Malo was a problem.

No, not getting the cuffs off of his wrists. Sawing through those was easy with Alois' sharp surgical saw, and his collar came off just as easily as the others, and sewing up the cuts Justine had made on his face was easy. She did, after all, know the herridgeborne stitch, and this was the only application of it she had encountered thus far. She worried that with each twitch he would wake up, attack someone, and tear out the stitches, but he stayed asleep.

It was mostly because she knew next to nothing about gangrene and Alois could not determine anything blind. They could always leave the dying digits on, and if it was just a product of darkness, water and malnutrition it would heal on its own, but if it _wasn't_ the rest of him out die, too. Clarice could not figure out which one was worse.

"Father David, don't you know a thing or two about this sort of thing?"

"His hands aren't too far gone. They'll be fine, I think."

"See, that's what I think, but it could just be the light, and you know I don't want a violinist to have his fingers hacked off."

"His toes are going to have to go."

"Can't it wait? He'll wake up if we do that."

"He can't stay like this forever, you know."

"Yes..." Clarice muttered, "But what if he goes crazy again?"

"I need to go into town." Inspector Marot said. As Clarice had predicted, he had washed up and had changed into Alois' clothes at the earliest opportunity, "I'll go on my own and pick up another doctor."

"At this hour?"

"I'm also heading down to the police station, and sending my wife a telegram."

"Eat something, at least." Clarice said, "We should all eat something."

She knelt down to re-heat the soup she had made last night, and commended herself for her for-sight. Inspector Marot ignored her and opened the door, flooding the kitchen with light. Everyone stopped a moment.

The sun was rising.

* * *

Yeah, I'm busy right now so I'm neglecting my fanficiton, the only reason this one is getting updated is because I've got chapters to spare. Sorry, other fandoms. I'll make it up to you with something super-special awesome this Christmas. I don't know what fandom it will be for, but there is a chance it will be these characters.


	6. Chapter 5

Amnesia: Clarice.

(Disclaimed.)

Why Alois is a doctor and not a career tennis, raquet, badminton (what-ever-it-could-be-lacross-for-all-I care) player is because: a) I'm pretty sure if her son was a career tennis player, Mdm. Racine would not care if it was forsaking it to pursue Justine, because there is defiantly more money to be made in marrying Justine, and b) the bromide. While it was readily available during that time period, only a doctor would have the ability to produce or at least buy enough to poison someone, or be equipped with the knowledge that it _could_ kill someone at a high enough dosage.

Also, c) rule of cool. He can hurt himself for Justine, but he's a doctor, he knows exactly what he's doing and he knows where _not_ to cut. 'Nuff said.

* * *

_She was honestly surprised to find them sitting around her house. Of all things, she had not expected Clarice to perform better than she had._

Chapter five:

Dawn.

She stood up again and walked towards the light, staring stupidly.

The light of day, with a golden sunrise and everything! It was peeking through the leaves of the trees and splashing over the garden like the eyes of god himself.

She had to sit down, it was just too moving.

She had been up most of the night, and yet with the morning light any hint of fatigue was swept away completely. She was at peace. She was back above ground and she was safe. So was everyone else. Were any of them to die, they could die more at peace than they would have under the estate. She sighed with relief and drew her makeshift lace shawl tighter around herself. She knew how much danger she was in, but she still felt nothing but peace and calm.

"And you thought _you_ missed the sunrise." Doctor Founeir said beside her.

She jumped and looked at him. He was tucking in his (Alois') shirt. He looked much better now that he was not complete covered in filth and grime, and now that he was dressed, not necessarily to the nines, and he was not wearing shoes, either. "Inspector Marot has the right idea, going into the main part of town, I'm heading in with him, and I'll be sending telegrams for the others. Would you like to send one?"

"Bring another doctor." she said, "For Malo."

"Yes, we've thought of that." He crossed his arms, "I _meant_ a family member."

"No. I haven't been missing that long, I'm sure they aren't worried about me."

"Friends?"

She wished he had not asked that. She tightened her shawl around herself and looked at her bare legs, they were caked in filth from their previous quest through the sewers. Her face reddened a bit. "Didn't you hear me before? Justine is all I have."

He stared at her for a minute, as if expecting her to cave in and ask him to call her entire family, but she did not. She got to her feet and gathered the apples from the orchard, like she had told herself she would, when she returned, she tossed one to the doctor.

"Nothing's ever going to be the same again." she said, "I might as well have a moment of not being the same to myself before they come down here."

"Suit yourself." He shrugged, "That soup's heated now, would you like some?"

"What? No, serve yourselves first. Malo will be up soon, I won't eat until he does."

It did smell wonderful, though. She sat there and let the fragrance wash over her. That was just as good as eating.

Time passed slowly, Alois and Basile kept as silent as the grave in the kitchen, waiting for Malo, who never fully woke up. She sat on the porch and watched the sun drift by. For just a moment; she closed her eyes and let time get away from her.

When Inspector Marot and Doctor Founeir returned two hours later, they had certain done all that they had said they would, and more. In addition to a part of the police force in Calais, and a promise to be down by that afternoon from his wife (which lifted his spirits considerably, even a blind man could see that) and a doctor, they had also brought a host of about five nuns to ease the new burdens Clarice was sure to face now that she was caring for so many more people, and they brought food, good will, and proper priest's garb for the Father.

The place was a buzz then. Clarice had not bothered giving Justine her breakfast in bed, like she normally did, and instead had to commission ever chair in the dining room for one of their guests for taking statements and signing paperwork and doing everything necessary in this kind of affair. She was humiliated because she had to wander around in her drawers and corset and a thin veil of lace. The _others_ had all been able to take Alois' clothes, after all.

Then she left the scene and headed back and watched as the doctor completed the delicate work of taking off Malo's dead skin. He did not seem to be in pain right now, because the doctor had brought ether with him, and have given Malo a good dose of it before he had started working. When most of his toes were gone and some of the skin on the bottom of his feet he was given a diagnosis of 'otherwise fortunate' and Clarice was given strict instructions on how to monitor his diet and conditions.

Clarice was flattered that the doctor would assume that she would be put in charge of Malo, and she presented her few injuries to him, but all she needed was a bandage, a bath, and clean clothes, which she readily took. She had a spare corset, but that was the one she normally saved for special occasions, but she tied it loosely and slipped on her second dress and another of many white aprons. When she was in her room, there was one moment of normal. Just one second of things not being a nightmare again.

When she walked back into the kitchen, drying her hair on a towel, she was greeted with an intense, green stare.

She screamed and jumped back. He cringed and looked away, and did not say a word. Clarice was frozen for a moment, until she realized that he still was not dressed. She fetched his clothes for him, and set them down beside him, saying quickly, "I'll get you some food."

She made sure the soup was still warm, and put it in the last clean bowl. She'd be washing more dishes than ever now, it seemed. She served it with a slice of bread, "It's fairly bland, I'm afraid, but—"

She thought about the tooth marks on his arm and her shoulder.

And suddenly, things were really _really_ awkward. She stopped talking at once and set the soup with a slightly stale slice of bread in front of him. He had dressed quickly, and he looked like himself again, now that he was dressed and cleaned up. Sure, his hair was still gone but Clarice was certain it would grow back in time. He had such nice, red hair. And Justine had been right; he did look cat-like.

He said stiffly, "Its fine."

She watched him eat for a while, and it was still really, really awkward, because _she_ knew he was trying not to look at her and she could not take her eyes off of him. Eventually, she turned around and stared at the light spilling over the garden again.

She wished he would say something, because standing there in silence was awkward. She twirled a piece of her hair and stood there, because waiting for this to blow over would not happen. Eventually, he sighed heavily, "You're a good cook. I always meant that."

She felt her face growing warm and she smiled to herself. "You... I always liked you best." She replied, "I —I meant that."

"I know."

She turned to look at him, frowning, "You _know?"_

"You don't look over your old diary entries much, do you?" he asked, looking up at her for a second. "Kind of makes me wonder why you even keep a journal. You're missing two weeks in July."

"What?"

He looked as if he were about so share some groundbreaking truth, and her heart soared for just a second, but he scowled again, got up, and stumbled away. She stood and the window for a while, cursing his cowardice, but she knew that would do no good, so she gathered up the empty bowls and set them in the washbasin¸ and then grabbed a bite to eat for herself.

It was not until she served herself the last remaining bits of broth and vegetables that she realized the depth of her own hunger, and she had not been starving for weeks on end. Once she had finished her meal, a wave of fatigue hit her, and she wound up pushing the bowl aside and slumping down on the once-operating table. She did not sleep for very long, because she had been just about to doze off when she felt someone drape a coat over her shoulders.

She looked up to see Malo staggering away again, still getting used to walking upright again. He stopped, picked up three sheets of parchment paper, and looked them over. She saw that they were his short solo, _Justine._ He glanced over to her and she closed her eyes quickly. She was certain he had not seen that.

Then he left.

She sat there for a while, her nose buried in her arms, waiting for herself to drift off again, but she was completely awake now. Her heart was pounding and her face was flush. She could not fade back to sleep.

Besides, there was probably tea to be served or something.

She raised a hand to the collar of Malo's coat and closed her eyes for a moment.

The nuns came in soon, talking of how the local seminary would be put in order again now that Father David had been returned to them. Clarice stood up, slipping her arms into the coat and asking, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Why, yes." said the mother superior, turning, to her, "You can go out and talk to the chief of police. He requested you. We'll handle this."

Clarice did as she was told, and found the chief of police sitting with Basile, taking his statement on a small notepad. Clarice waited for a break in conversation before she said, "You wanted me, sir?"

"Ah, yes, I did. It's high time we took Justine Florbelle into custody, however, she will resist arrest, I am sure, until she sees how greatly outnumbered she is. We need you to go and bring her down. Do you think you can do that?"

"Y -yes." Clarice answered stiffly, "I can. And I will, just let me serve her breakfast first."

"As you like, Mademoiselle."

Clarice walked back to the kitchen, shaking terribly. Was she really going to do it? Really? Could she do something like that? Well, Justine did deserve it.

She prepared her morning tea, scrambled two eggs and toasted the remaining slice of bread, then she walked up the stairs to Justine's room, stopping in front of the door. She was prepared to walk in there, like nothing had happened. She was prepared to look Justine in the eye and act like it was all just a bad dream.

Of course, even if Clarice did not coax her, Justine would come _down_ stairs eventually, and see just what was really going on.

And things _had_ happened.

She thought about what Justine's last letter had said, that she had done that to Malo just to spite her. Inspector Marot had taken the letters as evidence, but she still remembered the feeling of rage that had welled up inside her. She remembered the feelings of fear and rage she had felt inside the cabinet and her entire body tensed for a moment. She clenched her teeth as she stared at the door.

_They can all be saved._ Her voice echoed in her head, _There is always away._

"Unless." Clarice hissed out loud, "They don't_ want_ to be."

"C-clarice?" Came Justine's voice suddenly, not from her bedroom, but from her sitting room, just on the other side of the door, "Clarice, is that you?"

The maid's breath caught and she stepped back, nearly dropping the tray, but she did not say a word. She could not even speak. She was completely lost.

"No!" Justine hissed, "No! She will survive! She has too! I must be patient."

Clarice stood there for a moment, her hands shaking and the world losing focus.

"Mademoiselle Justine?"

"Clarice!" She stood up and scrambled to the door, throwing it open. "Clarice, I'm so sorry Clarice!"

She looked like she had not slept at all last night. Her eyes were bright and bloodshot, and there were slight bags under them. Her hair was a mess, even if she had braided it before bed the night before. She had put on her own corset, and a white silk dressing gown. She looked completely normal, completely sane. While Clarice felt a small flicker of pity, she reminded herself that _she_ had not gotten much sleep, either, and she had nearly been killed, _four times_! All of the sympathy was gone then, and it was replaced by fury.

She knew she was up here to try to get Justine to come down stairs, to be gentle and understanding, but she thought of how loyal Alois had been and how bitter and angry Basile had become, and what she had done to Malo, too, how insane they had all been driven, and she felt nothing but envy and hate. She wanted to scream and curse at her. She wanted to _kill_ her, even, blind her, do whatever it took to make her understand that she was, in fact, in the wrong.

She stood there, mute, Justine staring at her like she was the crazy one, and tried to remind herself that the justice system would handle it.

Was she being honest? Did she really feel a bit of remorse? Clarice thought about the recording, of how Justine had confessed to her Father's murder. She had sounded remorseful, sure, but was she really? Had it taken her years to realize that guilt? How long would it have taken, in theory, for Justine to feel guilt about all seven of _them?_ Would it really be guilt, or would it just be annoyance that she would have to hire another maid and find more 'friends' for her cabinet?

She did not want to know.

"Here... Here is your breakfast." She forced out sweetly. She set the tray down and realized she was still wearing Malo's coat. She hoped that Justine would either not recognize it, or not notice at all. "Mademoiselle, when can I expect you to come down stairs?"

Justine did not answer. She grabbed the back of Malo's coat and pulled her back into the room, "How—How did you do, though?" she asked quickly, "My cabinet of perturbation..?"

So, the results were not confidential? Clarice looked down at the cup of cold tea, then back to Justine's captivating eyes. She was so eager to know, the monster! Her eyes were _glowing_ with anticipation. Clarice thought about what to say for a moment, because she could obviously not tell the truth. She could not say that she had freed everyone and brought them above ground again. Justine would probably poison herself to keep from the reality, or maybe she would come down just so she could martyr herself.

And so she told the most blatant lie of her life, "I killed them." She kept her tone cold, "All of them."

Justine stepped back, as if that was not what she was expecting. Obviously, she had been through there several times, and she had spared them each and every time. It did not fit that she, who was completely evil, would let them live, while Clarice, almost the embodiment of everything good, would let them die. Clarice busied herself with pouring cream into the tea, just like Justine liked it.

"O-oh?" she asked.

"Of course, Mademoiselle, they were _your_ enemies. Even those nasty suitors. The nerve of them!" Justine let her go and stepped back. Clarice stepped forward, trying to look just crazy on the outside and Justine was in the inside, "I hope you thought about it, Justine. About how many times you would let me live, or about if I would be one of the suitors. I don't think I'd be a very good one. I don't have it in me to kill you. At least, I don't think so."

Justine did not say a word at first, until Clarice shrugged Malo's coat tighter around her

"Now, when will you come down stairs?" She asked again.

Justine looked at the open door, then to Clarice again. She seemed to notice the coat for the first time, and then recognize it. There was a sudden uproar of laughter from down stairs. Clarice cringed and gasped, because it blew the lies away easily, and so she knew Justine realized _she_ had heard it to, so she would have a terrible time trying to convince her that there was no one down stairs. Justine looked at the floor boards, as if she could see through it to the policemen below. Clarice held her ground.

"You're planning something!" Justine exclaimed. "I know you. You're too loyal for your own good. You wouldn't kill Malo and _then_ wear his coat. No. He's alive. They're _all _alive."

A little flicker of emotion crossed Clarice's face and she _knew_ Justine picked up on it.

"What did you _do?" _Justine shouted.

Clarice felt a bolt of fear go through her, and she did not bother to keep it from her face. She had never seen Justine get violent. The only time she harmed someone was when they were unconscious. She was not a physical strong person; she used her wits, not brawn. But Clarice had considered herself faint of heart before, and she saw she was capable of great things; she would never underestimate the power of anger again.

_"_You let them out!" Justine shrieked, "_I_ _did_ hear voices last night, and I do hear them now. You called the police!"

"So what if I did?"

"That was _not_ part of the test." Justine told her firmly. She caught Clarice's arm in a vice-like grip and drew her deeper into the room, shoving her against the wall. "I'll have to start all over now!"

"I don't have to follow your rules." Clarice yelled back. She shook Justine's arm off, "You—"

She wanted to say something mean. She wanted to tell Justine that she was an insane, emotionless, _bitch_ that had been spoilt and coddled after her father died, but she knew that she would not believe it. She also knew that the _moment_ her father was dead, the first person to spoil her was _Clarice herself._

She could remember it like it was yesterday. She shampooed the carpet in time to remove the blood stains. She had picked up the soapstone from the study floor, careful to keep the bloodied edges away from her dress and apron, and she had cleaned it off in the side washroom, and she returned it to its spot in its collection.

The reason her fingerprints were there?

She had dusted it.

But no one had asked. No one even suspected Justine, probably because Clarice had done so well cleaning up. They said he had been drinking. They said he had lost balance. They wrote it off as an accident. Maybe it was suicide, but it had not been murder. They had found no evidence for murder.

Yes, that day she had sealed her fate. She was an accomplice then, in everything. The murder, maybe even the imprisonment of the six she had just saved.

Why would Justine take that service and throw in in her face like that? Clarice saw no logic behind it. She had kept Justine out of custody, the mark of murdering her father would have stayed with her for her life, and she never would have been able to start her cabinet.

Perhaps that would have been for the best. Perhaps she should not have tried so hard to save her friend, none of this would have happened, then. This was her fault. Justine was insane and she should have seen it before. She should have done something.

"You _did_ do it just to spite me, didn't you?"

"What?"

"Malo!" she shouted, "Did you really do that to Malo just to spite me, or was that just something to say because you knew it would hurt? Did you really leave pages of my diary with _him_ because you knew it would hurt? What else did you do, _just_ because you knew it would hurt?"

"You called the _police! _You deceitful little bitch!"

Justine pushed her back into the bedroom wall by the fire. Clarice took the blow but did not do anything about it. This did not have to end in violence. "Me?" she replied, "_You_ put them there!"

"And I never would have done it without _your_ cooperation!" Justine accused, then she laughed triumphantly, "Don't you see? You're going to hang right alongside me!"

Justine may well be right. Clarice could take responsibility for this. She could even be _forced_ to take responsibility for this, or have it shoved haphazardly on her shoulders, even accidentally. After all, she could have done more. She could have done more for several years. She could have worked harder, been there, raised her voice a few times, and maybe warned the others before Justine took them below. Maybe she could have helped them escape; of course, she had never had the perfect opportunity. Justine had always been there, waiting and watching, perhaps just _looking_ for an excuse to lock Clarice away with them.

"But I still got them out!" Clarice shouted back, "And besides, I think it's fairly safe to say they like _me_ better at this point. Mademoiselle, you are _not_ above the law."

"You… You _whore!"_

She knew, just like everything else, that Justine had simply done it because she knew it would hurt. And it _did_ hurt. Her hand clenched onto a fist, but she did not want to strike Justine, not unless Justine struck first. Lightning fast, Justine threw her back into the chair and struck her once in the neck, where Malo had bitten her just moments before.

It hurt, but she did not let it show in her face. She kept her head on her shoulders. She had honestly not wanted a full-on physical confrontation. She tried to stand, but Justine grabbed her wrists and held her down.

Clarice was startled to see just how strong Justine really was. She was clearly losing. Justine was baring down on her and she could not think of a way to get her to let go. Perhaps it was because she had wasted so much energy last night. In a bold move, she slammed her knee into Justine's diaphragm, but her corset served as armor.

How Justine managed to learn where to hit to leave Clarice completely immobile, she would never know, but after a quick strike to her knees, she was unable to stand for a moment, and was only able to watch helplessly as Justine walked towards the fire, where the bed pan was sitting in the flames. She picked it up and Clarice saw that the bottom of the pan was white hot. Clarice, though her body was entirely jelly, used that chance to dash away towards the door. She picked herself up once she heard Justine running towards her, and slipped out of Malo's coat as soon as she grabbed it.

She was not thinking clearly. She should have headed for the stairs and gotten someone to restrain Justine, but she was only thinking about what she would do if she was blinded. How would she get employment elsewhere if she could not see? That was all she wanted to do now, quit. Leave Calais and move far, far away. She snatched up the nearest vase and hurled it at her Mademoiselle. She just wanted to hit Justine in the head and knock her out. That was all. She snatched up a porcelain statuette to do just that and hurled it.

The statuette hit the bed pan.

The bedpan hit Justine.

Clarice did not even get time to scream, "No!"

There was a hiss, Justine cried out in pain. Clarice could smell burning skin and hair. Justine stepped back, her arm to her eyes, screaming in pain. She dropped the bedpan, and the ashes inside caught her dressing gown on fire, then the carpet. Clarice managed to kill the flames with her own apron.

"Oh god…" Clarice hissed, looking back towards Justine, her hand was still over her eyes, so Clarice could not see if she had been blinded by the accident or just a little singed. "Oh god… Oh god… Oh god…"

She heard footsteps running up the stairs, and she turned to Justine's door. Inspector Marot stood there. He gaped at the scene for a moment, Justine sprawled across the floor, and Clarice on her hands and knees beside her. She blinked furiously and she realized she had begun to cry.

"I—" Clarice started feebly, "I didn't mean to! Oh, oh maybe I did but... But I know it isn't right. What have I done? Inspector, what have I done?"

Justine stirred, and as much as she did not want to, Clarice leaned forward to assess the damage. Justine had closed her eyes and had ducked at just the right moment. The bedpan had actually only taken one eye with it, and most of her face, but only the right side, which was covered in terrible burns. The left side was unscathed, and her left eye could still see, perhaps even her right eye had not suffered much damage.

"It's all right."

Basile and Alois had joined the other two now, followed closely by the Father. The only one still missing was Malo, but Clarice did not want him to see this. She did not want the others to see this, and two of them could not, thankfully.

"It was self-defense." He said. He cuffed Justine's left hand, then turned her on her back and cuffed her right.

Alois heard the click of Justine being clapped in irons and he staggered forward, barely managing to slip between Basile and Doctor Founeir, "Wait, Inspector, please, don't take Mademoiselle into custody."

Justine woke up completely as Inspector Marot brought her to her feet, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She gasped in terror and stared at herself for a moment. Clarice cringed. With the burns on one side of her face, her perfect looks were undoubtedly ruined. Now, there was at least a hint of her true, inner ugliness showing through, and what was more, she could still suffer through _seeing_ it.

But Clarice was not proud to say she was the one that brought it out. Not at all.

Inspector Marot dragged her away kicking and screaming. Clarice did not care to understand what she was saying. She could have been spouting the meaning of life or incriminating evidence, but Clarice did not care. All she saw was her only friend being dragged away to the hell of bedlam. It was exactly what she had feared. Only, now she was horribly disfigured and blind in one eye.

"No!" Clarice shouted, "Wait! Please wait. You can't take her into prison! Let her stay here. I'll keep a better eye on her. She won't hurt anyone again, I promise!"

A carriage had come now, for some mental hospital. Clarice knew a thing two about mental hospitals, and they were not pleasant. She latched on to Doctor Founeir, "Please, Doctor, you know how bad it is in those mental hospitals. Justine would be so much safer here. Tell him! Tell him to put her under house arrest!"

Two policemen were dragging Justine away, and Clarice was still following them, even though two more held her back. She _knew_ Justine was evil, but she just kept seeing all of the good in her, the quick wit, the gracious hostess, even if it was all a lie, and deep down inside Justine was still just a monster.

But, aside from just that one time, Justine had never been mean or spiteful to her. Everyone made mistakes, right? Sure, not everyone's mistakes got other people killed, bit had had turned out alright in the end.

She remembered when her father had left to find work in America and had died on the voyage over. She remembered when her grandmother had fallen to pneumonia and her mother to a broken heart in the same winter. She remembered how Justine had been the only girl her age on the grounds and the two had always played together, even if they were not supposed to, and for that she had done everything she could to keep Justine out of institutions. How could she fail now, after succeeding for so long?

She had grabbed a hold of the other policeman, and then the front of Justine's dressing gown, "Please, Justine, I'm so sorry. I'll forgive her, just don't do this to her. I can take care of her. I can do better. She's all I have, please don't take her away. Where will I go?"

"You've got plenty of friends now." Inspector Marot told her. He let go of Justine, who was officially a ward of the state now that she had to hospital workers restraining her. Then they threw her in the back of a carriage, and took her away. It was sound proof, so her shrieks and laughter were cut off when the door slammed. They would take the carriage to a ferry, and take her to the mainland¸ where they would lock her away in a dark cell, not unlike the underground chambers of her own estate. She stood there while the dust settled and the last words echoed in her head.

_Where will I go?_

Clarice turned back to the house, a cold stone settling in her stomach. The tears began to flow from her blue eyes anew again and she covered her face with her hands. She would rather be blind than know what Justine had told her. She would rather be blind to see just how old and decayed the Florbelle Estate looked now. She had consoled herself once before by telling herself that she was just one person and she had done her best, but now she knew her best was not good enough.

She fell to her knees in the circle of her new friends, if, as Inspector Marot had said, there was any real friendship there, and sobbed.

"L-let me guess." Basile offered hesitantly, "Sh-she called you a whore."

* * *

Aaaand that's all.

For part one.

Part two will not have _any_ chapters from Clarice's PoV...

FUCKING _HELL_ I'VE GOT TO WRITE BLIND PEOPLE AGAIN!


	7. chapter 6 PII ch1

Amnesia: Clarice.

(Disclaimed.)

I wanted to flesh out the suitors and the prisoners a bit more, while I know Clarice was supposed to be a short piece, we will have seven (I miiiiight write something from Justine's PoV, but if I can't manage it, it will be Clarice) chapters.

* * *

Part two: Recovery.

Chapter one: Alois.

He could feel sunlight on his face. Alois turned towards the light, smiling. He heard someone walking around his room and could smell breakfast, "Is that Madame Marot or Clarice?"

"Madame Marot." she answered, "Meal time."

He had no idea what the inspector's wife looked like, but he was under the impression that she was brunette, and had blue eyes, and that she was quite a wonder to behold. Of course, this description was given my Monsieur Marot in the sweep of romantic excitement, because the minute of his beloved wife's arrival had been drawing getting nearer and nearer.

But she was quite nice to him, very supportive and caring, and with the proper circumstances given to spinning quite the witty statement.

"Ah, good, you have no idea how much of an appetite lying around all day can give you!"

They shared a laugh. She came away from the window (she had pulled the curtains apart) and set the breakfast tray down over his lap as he sat up.

"And your arm?"

"I would assume it is still broken."

"Well, you're certainly as chipper as one would like. I am always impressed by how strong and cheerful you are these days."

"Please!" he said, "I'm getting regular meals and the sun on my face. Life is grand again, compared to what it was." Then, on a darker note, he added, "Sometimes, you know, I get flashbacks. It's horrible. Doctor Founeir says they may never stop. I'm a little worried."

"Well, perhaps leaving the Florbelle Estate is the best thing for you." Madame Marot replied. He heard her unfolding a linen napkin and tucking it under his chin for him, "Would you like to try for yourself a bit today?"

"Oh, I think I'm more than capable of lifting a spoon—"

"Don't count on it. I tried it blindfolded last night so I would know just how difficult it is. I had half the staff trying with in fifteen minutes and none of them could do it."

"—then again, I am a member of the Aristocracy."

"So that's a no, then?"

"Resoundingly so!" Alois laughed.

"It's probably for the best. You need to be as fat and happy as you can be by this afternoon. Your mother is coming down."

He was glad she had delivered that news when there was nothing for him to choke on. He heard her taking the lid of the porcelain serving dish and could smell porridge. Quite delicious porridge. As most delightful a porridge Clarice could make (which was fairly delightful). This batch smelt of oranges, and he was almost certain it was garnished with zest. It seemed a little strange to garnish a blind man's dish, but he would not question it.

"When?" he asked before Madame Marot could feed him the first spoonful

"This afternoon." she answered, "Open. By the sound of her letter, she'll be taking over your care—"

"Oh, please tell me Clarice will still cook for me. She's such a wonderful cook. It tastes even better when you're blind, did you know that?"

"Open. Well, when I was trying to eat blind, there was a certain feel of victory. It probably adds to the flavor."

"Fascinating. And how is your husband?"

"He's fine. Walking around, you know, and we've sent for the children. They should be arriving today."

More people he would only know by traits and voices. He had seen the Inspector many times, but he was certain his children were not all identical to him.

Alois paused for a moment for a sip of tea. There was one thing he found he missed on the Florbelle estate, and that was coffee. There was none to be had on the estate. Which was probably for the best, in the grander scheme, because it would have been Clarice's sole responsibility to make coffee, and this probably would have meant growing and roasting the beans herself, which was just one more thing to lay on her shoulders. In addition to the orchard and the three gardens, and the house, and the animals.

This tea was nice, though, a mix of flavors from around the world, and it had just as much caffeine as coffee did, but it was so sweet. Clarice always added too much stevia [1.] and hibiscus flower to the mix. It would take the enamel off his teeth, if he was not careful, at least, that was what it seemed like. But it was only tea.

With way too much Stevia.

He preferred coffee, because coffee was bitter. He coughed on the sweet taste for a moment before setting the cup down and saying, "Oh, what an irony! I would like so much to meet them, but I can't be in good health, else I should have to stand and face my mother!"

"I don't see what's so wrong with that."

"She'll be quite cross." Alois answered.

When he was done with his breakfast, he sent her out, because today he was determined to dress himself. It was not easy blind, and his still-broken arm gave him no help at all. He could move the fingers, though, if only barely because of the heavy cast. It had been a few days, perhaps even a week, and he had not managed on his own once. This was nothing compared to the fatigue that would overcome him whenever he stood because of malnutrition, and the imbalance that accompanied having all of his chains removed. He was pushing himself too hard. He knew that, but he could not resist the urge to be independent again. But, he had always fallen over, and she had always had to come in and laugh at him, saying he was too stubborn and not to worry, she had seen her _husband_ naked, and while Alois was much prettier, he was not as impressive.

"And I'll never see married women in the same light again!" Alois said.

"What was that?"

"N-nothing!" he said, making sure he was pulling on his trousers correctly. When he had managed that, he searched the beauro for a clean shirt, when he eventually found, and it was Clarice's good thinking to make them all buttonless, so that he would not suffer the indignity of walking around with a miss buttoned shirt. He tucked it in and searched for his socks and shoes. He could not find his coat, but he knew a tunic and trousers was good enough for an infirmed man hanging around the private rooms of a country estate, and that managing to put each shoe on the right foot the first time was quite impressive.

It took him two minutes to find the door knob, but he was still pleased with himself.

He had a cane, which he could tap on various obstacles, and it did cross his mind once or twice to give Basile a good whap with it once or twice a day, but he had never done it once so far, and he would probably miss anyway. And even if he did hit him, Basile had his own cane, and they would wind up dueling with them, and it would be amusing for any onlookers and first, but he was certain it would lose its charm quickly. [1.]

It made him feel thoroughly dignified. He walked down the stairs to the sitting room, where Basile was already sitting, and if the glum piano plinking proved anything, Clarice was there, too.

As if to confirm this, she sighed heavily, "Hey, Alois."

"And how are you?"

"Paperwork's still shuffling on the mainland, Justine's still undergoing evaluation. It'll be a few more days."

"Perhaps we should visit her instead." Alois offered, eagerly.

"No." Clarice sighed, "I don't want too."

Alois frowned. _He_ was still keen on seeing her. There was just something _about _her. Even blind, he was still hopelessly drawn to her wit and charm. Perhaps it would just take one time really meeting her again to shake him of it, after all, he had barely missed her last time.

"Then why bother dragging her back _here?_" Basile asked, "I certainly don't want to see her, either."

"Because she needs me." Clarice grumbled, "I'll put her on the right track."

"Well if you ask_ me__—_"

Alois resisted the urge to give Basile a sound whap with the cane. He managed it, but he was certain Clarice saw his hand tighten its grip.

He and Basile had been friends, yes. When everything had been tinted in a fairer hue. Now, it was different. Now, everything was dark and it seemed that all Basile said were spiteful, hurtful things. Alois' hand loosened. Basile had every right to be hurtful. Alois himself had every right to be, too. But he wasn't. Why wasn't he?

Because he had known what was going to happen the moment he saw Justine pick up that metal rod? He had prepared himself for blindness in the five seconds before he had summed up the courage to say, 'your beauty is blinding'?

"Monsieur Giroux, if I do bring Justine home, what will I do with you? Do you promise to be nice?"

Basile did not answer.

"It's a big place. She can take the east wing, he can take the west wing. They'll never see each other."

"What will I do if Justine makes a game of sneaking around the estate, avoiding the two of you? Does that seem like something she'd try?"

"Yes."

Clarice sighed sadly.

"But fortunately, none of us will be attempting to kill her."

"I don't see any reason—"

Alois' hand tightened on his cane. He knew that tone. He knew what Basile had been going to say. He had been going to finish that sentence with, 'to let her live.' But something had stopped him. What, Alois did not know. He fell silent for a moment, but Alois was only aware of just how powerful his silence was because he was blind. Basile took a sighing breath inwards and said, "I don't see any reason why _I_ would."

Very subtle. Alois relaxed his hand. Basile now shifted the focus on him, by pointing out that they had both attempted to kill Justine multiple times. Alois straitened himself up, and said clearly, "_None of us_ will be attempting to kill her."

"Yeah, but how do you _feel_ about her?" Basile demanded, "You aren't still trailing after her like a lost puppy, are you?"

Alois did not respond right away. He held his cane flat across his knees, turning his hands around it, as if to twist the rigid wood. He gasped and cringed because it hurt his broken arm to do so, so he resumed gripping it in one hand only, and he thought about what Basile had said and what Justine had meant to him.

Did he still want her?

Yes.

What he an idiot?

That and _more_. By no means did it make sense, but it seemed that his mother was right and Justine _had_ cast some kind of spell on him, because when he thought of her, his heart soared and his stomach still turned flips. She was more than just a mad woman. She was brilliant, charming, she had a sort of magnetism to her. There must be some term for her condition that had not been invented yet.

He could feel Clarice looking at him with interest, even though he could not see it, and knew Basile would be as well. He felt his face grow red, and wondered if Basile sensed it. He continued to fiddle with this cane, knowing that they were patiently waiting for his answer. What would he say? If he said yes, Basile would mock him, if he said no, he knew it would hurt Clarice, and he knew that. It was best to be non-committal at this point in time, "I_ would_ like to see her again, if I could. Perhaps not to rekindle what we had, but for closure."

_Closure._ That was a nice lie. He was certain Basile did not even buy it, and he was as gullible as a child! He snorted, leaned back in his chair, and seemed to laugh a little not in amusement, but with relief. Alois wondered why this was for a moment, but knew there was no real reason behind it, but perhaps Basile had believed him, that he had only wanted closure, and was glad that he would not have to slap some sense into him.

"Oh, hush." Alois cut him off quickly, "If I can forgive her, you can too."

"No." Basile said flatly, "I can't. I'm not stupid. Look, Clara… Carla...—"

"It's Clarice..."

"... Whatever. I'm bad with names."

But Basile said nothing more. He was probably sulking, although Alois had no idea why. No one had done anything to slight him. Alois felt like giving something to really feel bad about, and tell Clarice that Basile was actually just bad with _laides' names_ because he had so many flings on the side with his courtship with Justine that it was sickening. He probably knew a handful of Clarices in Nor-de-Calais alone. In fact, Alois suspected that Justine was just a fling on the side of a much bigger prize, some wealthy, widowed Madame in Paris.

But saying so would be snide, unnecessary and mean, so he would not. He was certain the three of them had a fragile respect for each other that would grow stronger for the years because of their shared ordeal, but he knew that sowing seeds of ill-repute would _not_ let it grow. So he did not say a word about it.

Besides, if he did, it would just start up the three-way gridlock they had entered with _Justine._ Fortunately, instead of money and power, the perks would just be Clarice's good humor. And they _all_ had dirt on each other, and they all had dirt to be unearthed. They had to promise not to bring it up now, not while they were so fragile physically and mentally. Especially Malo. Perhaps he and Basile could have a battle of rumors and gossip, but somehow, he knew Malo would be dragged in, and he had secrets—he had _one_ secret—that Alois did not even want to think about. It would be far to damaging.

But Alois would not be the one to say it. Not this time, at least.

"You remembered Mademoiselle Justine's name perfectly well."

"That's because Justine had money." Basile confessed, "And, really, she scared the shit out of me."

"Why didn't you _leave?"_

"Because she had _money_." Basile repeated, "You've been here all your life, so you take it for granted. I know, I know, shut up, you work. I never said you didn't. You've had security your entire life, and for me? Hey, that's a big deal."

"Security..." Clarice sadly echoed.

Basile's tone showed he regretted his choice of words dearly. Alois heard him moving forward in his chair, "Until, you know, she disregarded your hard work and threw you to the wolves. If you ask me, you should leave. Don't give Justine the satisfaction of knowing you are still her friend, or at least, you still keep the job."

There was a pained silence. Was Alois reading too much into it, or was Basile moving in on Clarice now? Was he really _that _insatiable? No, no there was no way that was right. Basile was not like that! He could have leave give her a few days to see that Malo would not take the bait first. Of course, he and Basile both knew that Malo would probably not take it. Perhaps, Basile did not want to make the glaringly obvious move of taking Clarice up on the rebound. He was just opening a window in advance, because he _knew_ the door would close.

Alois ran a finger up his cane, it had taken his racquet's place, so far as fiddling went. He fiddled with things when he thought. He leaned back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the cane's handle. _Was_ he reading too much into it? No one was saying a word, should he send Clarice for tea and ask himself? He could not see Basile's face, no matter how hard he tried.

No, what if the answer was yes? Clarice would come back with that horribly sweet tea and he would have to suffer through the flavor and the knowledge, and then what would he do? Would he try to protect Clarice from him like he had tried to protect Justine? Would he really go through with poisoning him? No. No, he would just bitch and criticize and he would not do a damn thing. He would just tell Clarice he was a useless womanizer and it would put a rift between the three of them that could never be bridged.

And what if it was genuine? Clarice had actually saved their lives, and little affection was not out of the question, neither was desire, really. Perhaps the romantic appeal of being rescued would wear off, but what if it happened at a bad time? Like Clarice's rebound? Which could also happen at the inopportune moment of Justine's return.

And Justine was missing an _eye_ not her tongue. Alois could see it now. She would return, Clarice would run out to greet her, smiling and warm, with her favorite book and a tea tray, trying to shake of the feeling that she had Malo would never be together and Justine would promptly start spilling all of the nasty information she had about the three of them, perhaps even Clarice as well, but Alois was skeptical that she could have a bad rap being isolated in Calais Proper. Still, it would be some thanks for keeping her out of Bedlam and the clink, or the Devil's Ilse.

But it was exactly the kind of thing Justine would do.

Why?

Because it would hurt. It would hurt all of them like hell. It would take this nice peaceful feeling of being free and found and leave nothing but embers and ribbons in its wake.

And yet Alois still wanted her to return.

Why? That was evil. Maybe to a third party it would seem petty and spiteful, and maybe to Justine it would be a laugh, but to the four of them it would be one of the most painful things they would have to endure.

What would they do, then? How would they survive that? What horrible things could he find out about Clarice?

What horrible thing _was_ there to find out? The girl could do no wrong, and she had been confined here for most of her life, what bad rap could she have grown? None.

Someone came to the door, knocked softly on the doorframe and said, "Mademoiselle Clarice, could you join us in the kitchen, we need a little help with lunch."

"But its not yet eleven." Alois protested, confused.

"We need to get an early start."

"Hey!" Basile shouted, "We're talkin' here, give the girl a break!"

"I've had a break!" Clarice told him, "And they need all the help they can get, and we need to get an early start!"

The maid got to her feet and walked away, leaving the two of them in silence, until Alois asked, "You actually tried to remember her name, didn't you?"

Basile did not say a word, until he said plainly, "We won't end up fighting over Clarice."

"Well, yes, Basile, why ask such thing?"

"It wasn't a question. We won't do it."

Alois was frozen for a second. He was frightened to know that he had not been reading too much into it. He did not want to see Clarice get hurt. No, Basile would never _physically _hurt her, but he could tell you how much his gruff behaviors rubbed you wrong. "You won't hurt her."

"What?"

"You won't treat her like... like the _others_ and you won't treat her like you did _Justine?" _

He did not respond.

"Basile?"

Still nothing.

"Basile." He said again, with more force this time.

"You know." He said, "I guess you know because you know _everything_, but you still know about Malo."

"Yes. It is safe to say that he took our imprisonment the hardest."

But he knew that was not what Basile was talking about.

"I don't want her to get hurt, either." Basile said. Then, as if he had said too much, he stood up and walked away, leaving Alois in uncomfortable darkness and silence. He waited for half of the day in that dark nothingness for a voice to call him to lunch, but lunch was brought to him. He was so _useless._

No one could take to the courts blind, or even the operating table. What would he do with his life? Now, more than ever, marrying money and learning how to manage it was the best option for him, and for Basile, but Basile did not seem to realize that yet.

Someone walked behind him. He could tell by the stagger that it was Malo, still trying to walk strait after weeks of being forced to double over.

He blurted out shamelessly, "How do you feel about Clarice?"

Malo stopped, as if he could hide from Alois by keeping still and quiet, just as Jutine had done several times before. He even quieted his own breathing to try to lose his intrest.

"Malo."

"She... She's nice_._"

'Nice' was not an answer Alois was looking for. He turned to where he thought Malo was standing and said, "I mean, what does she look like."

"You _know_ what she looks like." Malo shouted, Alois jumped back, cringing as if he expected his arm to be bitten off. Malo stormed away, knocked over something, and it broke.

No one came to clean it up.

_Well, Alois, this is a pickle._ He told himself, _So, Team Malo or Team Basile?_

It was time to come to terms with something.

Malo was not attracted to women.

He was attracted to _money_ and that was what got him into this mess to being with. Alois was proud to say he was attracted to her before he knew about the money. Maybe if Justine had not been fabulously wealthy, Clarice never would have met him, or if she had, she would not have the wrong idea about him. He probably never would have met any of these people if Justine had not been wealthy. He could do without Basile, of course, but Malo was not a bad person, he was just caught in an awkward situation, and Clarice was as nice as anyone could be. It was good he hated the feeling of being a burden on her, otherwise, he would throw in his own lot with Basile.

But her courage inspired him. Perhaps he could save Justine himself, with Doctor Founeir, surely the two of them could figure out exactly what was wrong with her?

Poor girl.

He continued to wait, and wonder what would become of Clarice when she found out Malo would probably never really love her—not in the way she wanted, at least—and wondering how he would handle it if she chose Basile as a second option, and wondering what happened to Justine on the mainland, and what he would do when she came home. He still waited, the only knowledge of the passage of time was the sun on his face slowly fading away.

He waited until several running feet came by and one of them nearly tripped over his cane. He heard a familiar voice apologizing and realized that Madame Marot must be following her children around the estate while they ran wild. There were four of them, so he was told, oldest to youngest their names were Marion, Felipe and Pierre (who were supposedly identical twins), and Suzanne. He assumed Suzanne was either very shy or very young, or perhaps a joke, because she was the only one that never spoke.

The left again, leaving him in slightly more comfortable silence, trying to piece together what they might look like, until a nun came with someone else. He did not think it was Clarice, the footfalls were not light enough, but at the same time, he knew it was not a man, because it was clearly a woman's boot that was touching the floor.

"Mother?" he put on a smile for her, and realized in that moment just how much he had grown to miss her. She pulled him to her and held him close, "I'm so sorry for making your worry, Mother! I should have listened to you."

"Look at what she's done to you, Alois! You can't see me, can you?"

"I don't need to see you." he said, "I know what you look like Mother. You are blonde, with blue eyes, and rather stout. I have inherited your mouth, and my father's nose, but he has been dead these past two years, and you spend ages every day telling your friends how like him I am."

"Alois..."

"But you know perfectly well I am not like him. Father would never let you scrape by while he wasted his time on a sport, hoping to make a career of it when he had a perfectly acceptable one as a doctor waiting for him, and he would never abandon it—and you—for a romantic whim. It is a shame that now that I am completely useless, because now I want to be a better son."

She would have stroked his hair, if he had any, but he knew he didn't. What had been left of it after weeks of starving was matted and greasy and prone to falling out, so Clarice had shaved it off He did not mind, but the knitted cap he had been promised was not complete yet, so his mother's fingers against his bare scalp felt strange and almost unwelcome, but he did not say anything of it.

"I won't let you stay it this witch's house. As soon as you feel well, I am taking you home!"

"No." he insisted, gently pushing her away, "No, mother, I want to stay here."

"You can't possibly mean that?" she demanded. Alois knew from her tone that she was frowning, her hands on her hips.

"They can all be saved." He said calmly, smiling, "There is always a way."

* * *

[1.]... Which is really sweet, btw. 300 times sweeter than sugar. Go right now and find an herbal shop, and get some fresh stevia. It's so fucking sweet, you wouldn't believe a plant can be that sweet.

[2.]Fan art. Nao.

Another way to tell this story is in the wake of Justine's death (In the cabinet). Clarice would have to go down and free everyone just on her own, no pressure, probably with police backup. But I guess even that would not be very interesting, huh?


	8. Chapter 7 PII ch2

Amnesia: Clarice.

(Disclaimed)

Now's the part where I shyly scuttle into the room, hand you a manuscript, and shyly scuttle out again because not updating in two months is the kind of situation where I would say, "THE ONLY EXCUSE IS DEATH!"

Sorry, I guess.

So, no, sorry, no Christmas fic for any fandom.

I could always say 'I'll do it next year' but this is 2012. We're going to die.

* * *

Chapter two: Basile

Basile awoke to loud, clipping, footsteps.

Clarice was zipping around the place, laughing and shrieking. Basile turned on his stomach and tried to blot out the noise because he _was not _a morning person, but she was persistent. _Eventually_, it seemed that she was so damn obsessed with disturbing someone that she threw open the door, ran to his bedside and shouted, "I'M IN CHARGE OF THE PROPERTY!"

"Yeah." He picked up his cane from beside the nightstand and gently shoved her away with it, "I know."

"No!" she said, "No, you don't get it. Monsieur Florbelle was killed, and charge of the estate was passed on to Justine, Justine is unfit to handle it, and so it is passed on to her brother. Her _brother_ is settled in England with no aim to return here, and so charge of the estate goes to the head of staff. _I'm the head of staff!"_

_ "And?"_ Basile demanded.

"I CAN DO WHAT EVER I WANT WITH IT!"

"SO?" he shouted back.

She ran away, laughing triumphantly, and he heard the same exchange on the other side of the hall.

"Monsieur Racine! I'm in charge!"

"That's very fortunate, Mademoiselle, I am happy for you. What will you do?"

"I don't know..." she muttered, "I just don't know yet!"

"Well, I will remain here, no matter what you chose!" Alois told her. Basile heard him walking into the sitting room that they shared with Malo. Of course, Malo stayed holed up in his room during the day, and only came out when he was certain he would not see Clarice, the moping coward.

Basile sat up in bed and kicked off the sheets. He would remain, too, because he had no real choice. Yes, he had a family by they were dirt poor and the only one he knew could support him now was his brother, and his brother was too decent a person for Basile make him put with him. Not only was he pretty much an invalid, but he was not the nicest person in the world.

Look at how he had just treated _Clarice._ Sure, he was not a morning person (apparently she was), but he _liked_ Clarice. What could he say? She had grit to spare. She was damn fearless, and that was sexy. There was something that inspired—No, demanded!—slavish respect in a woman with that much gall. If you were to ask Basile, Clarice had nerves of iron, and he was not interested in hearing anything to the contrary.

"Malo!" Clarice called, "Monsieur De Vigney!"

Malo did not respond.

Basile frowned. Clarice did nothing but throw herself at him, and he did nothing but avoid her. Like she was the plague, or she was not _man _enough for him or something. He got up and staggered toward the window, cane in hand. He hated being blind, and he would never forgive Justine for it. The bitch! How dare she sweep the rug out from under him like this? He was useless, floundering around like a fish! What good was he? He could not even see what Clarice looked like now. Was she blonde? He was certain she was blonde.

He splashed water into the washbasin and splashed it into his face, then washed his neck and chest, toweling himself off before he roughly pulled on a shirt. Getting dressed blind was like getting dressed in the dark, and that was _one_ thing he was good at, getting dressed in the dark.

But then he was dressed, and he wanted the light to guide him, but all he had was a damn cane, which made him feel like an infirmed old man. Of course, he was a _lecherous_ infirmed old man, which made him feel even worse about himself. He heard Clarice coming back, and this time she came with breakfast. He hated that it was _her_ who fed him, because she was seeing him at his weakest, and despite her assurances that when his strength fully returned he would be able to do these things for himself, even blind, he did not believe her.

He wished he knew what she looked like.

No, he wished he could _see_. He just wanted some shred of proof that he could be back on his own feet someday, doing what he wished and answering to no one, but there was none.

"When Mademoiselle Justine returns," Clarice told him, setting up his breakfast, "I want you to be nice to her."

"I don't see why—"

"Oh _please_ Monsieur Grioux?" Clarice pleaded, "For me?"

That was another thing he hated. She called him Monsieur now. Underground it had been Basile. Underground they had been on equal terms, they had been familiar, but now she was lower than him again. So he had been Justine's suitor, they _were_ of the same social class. They _worked_, before he had seen his first surgery, he would have added 'unlike Alois they performed hard physical labor' but he could still say, 'unlike Malo, they actually_ did_ something.'

What did she see in him? Oh, he played the violin? That was nothing. That would not put bread on the table or a roof over her head. Was she under the impression that she would keep working for Justine and marry him, so that they would both live here? Not now!

_Why_ did she have to see it in him? He was a damn fairy! He had no head on his shoulders at all, and was just as impulsive as a schoolgirl. Basile felt white hot jealousy flare up in his chest. Clarice was a good woman, she deserved a real man.

She had cared for such big house on her own, and he was a simple man, with simple needs. He would never dream of buying a big place. Maybe she would welcome the change now that she had seen what Justine really was. Maybe she would like to exchange her uniform for working women's dresses. They would be beautiful, in all of the prettiest colors. And they would have children, too, maybe not a lot, maybe just one or two. The bravest children Calais had ever seen.

Sons even his _own_ father could not help but be proud of.

But he would not be able to see it.

He would never have a house. Not really. He would never have a family. He would have walls to keep out the wind, and possessions that tripped him up and got in his way. He would have voices. He would have sensations, but he would not be able to fully enjoy them. How could he enjoy what he could not see?

"Monsieur Grioux!"

"What?"

"You're sulking." She said, "Come on, open your mouth. Don't tell me it's not good."

"Clarice—"

"Here comes the train!" she said quickly, giggling. She jammed the spoon into his mouth. Truth be told, it was good. It was flavored with fresh cinnamon, but he had never been one for eating in the mornings. Still, everyone around him seemed to want to force feed him when he told them he was no longer hungry.

"Wouldn't you rather be spending your time with Malo?"

"M-Monsieur De Vigney won't see me." Her jovial mood was dashed, she said it like it was the worst tragedy in the world, "You hear him trying to play at night, on that beat up, water-logged violin, don't you?"

"It's annoying."

Annoying was the least of it. It was horrible. If there was one thing that could be said for Malo it was that he had talent, and it was sad to see talent go to waste on a bad instrument, especially at about three in the morning.

"It's so sad..." Clarice was in the middle of saying, "I worry each night when he stops that he's going to hang himself. Monsieur Grioux, will it ever work out for us? I mean, him and me?"

Basile, for just a moment, wished he really _would_ hang himself. They could write it off a simply guilt over the fact that he had gone completely insane and had tried to eat the very woman that loved him most, leaving his sexual preferences completely out of the equation, at least for a while.

He wanted to tell her no. He wanted to say it would never happen and he wanted to tell her exactly why. But he could not. He did not want to hurt her like that. He wanted Malo to say it, or Justine to say it, so that when Clarice came crying to him he could sit back and pretend he had never known.

So he lied. "I don't know."

"Why won't he see me? Was I too up front? Too forward?"

"I'm sure the fact that he tried to eat you alive might have something to do with it."

"Monsieur Grioux, no harm was done. You tried to _kill me_ and I've forgiven you. It's in the past. A dark, dark episode of our past that we are all going to come to terms with just as soon as Monsieur Fourneir feels that he can treat us."

It was refreshing to see a woman with that much understanding of the world. She and Justine were two pillars of strength in their own right, almost gave the entire female population some credibility. Madame Marot was not too bad, either, of course, but she was faithfully married to the Inspector.

Then, she gave him the most painful question he would ever have to answer.

"Monsieur Grioux, what do you admire in a woman?"

He had never given the question much though, though. Before this had happened women had seemed like such a common thing, and very few of them had proved a real challenge, that he had never placed any value or worth to them at all. He had no excuse for it. He had a good relationship with his own mother, and no one could say she had raised him _wrong_, even though she had never been the nicest person in the world. She was the one who had not put any value or worth on him.

He had just... never tried. And now that he was, the answer was: her. She was perfection embodied, it seemed, able to cook, clean, garden, and save_ lives_. She had a kind of charisma that only came out in a crisis, (it seemed she was an incurable little wilting violet at most times) and rock-solid nerves. He wanted to tell her that, but at the same time, he wanted to avoid starting any trouble or risk hurting her feelings at all costs.

There was part of him that wanted it to not work, but there was part of him that _wanted_ it to work, just so Clarice would have the happy ending she deserved. But he knew it would never work.

"Well?"

"Um..." he started, "Well..."

Damn it. He was playing the role that _Malo_ should be playing. Discussing what men wanted to see in a woman, _to_ a woman? Really?

"I—I can't find anything wrong with you." He eventually said, and wondered what kinds of repercussions it would have. It seemed to have none, because Clarice laughed, and he imagined she must be throwing back her head. She had such... pretty laughter, without a hint sarcasm or insanity, and without a deliberate tone of seduction like Justine's. Her laugh was so plain and ordinary anyone would hear it and know it was genuine.

"Basile, you're such a good friend!"

Ouch.

Man's curse was not that he was exiled from Eden. It was that he had to suffer in silence while a woman labeled him as friend, because the border of that land—that 'friend zone'—could never be crossed. At least she had called him by his first name this time.

"Monsieur Gioux, please stop sulking and eat!"

He did eat, but he did not stop sulking.

They did not say anything to each other while she fed him, and he just let himself despise his weakness and her compassion. She could have let him rot down there, escape, and find someone else to get him out, of course, if it had not been for_ all of them_ she would have just let Malo kill her, because she would have lost the will to go on, and that would not have solved anything. In fact, if it had not been for his strength, Malo never would have been knocked out.

He would have to learn that letting the little satisfaction at clubbing the brat in the head keep him happy every day. It was such a small thing compared to everything else. _You may be blind, but at least you hit Malo in the head as preemptive revenge._ That was petty, that was stilly.

But it was still enough to ease the stab of jealousy.

"You're grinning!" Clarice observed, "What is it? Is the food good?"

"What? Yes, it's wonderful."

He would have told her that he wanted to eat it every day, but that would have been a stupid thing to say. He just kept allowing himself to be spoon fed and hating it, and wondered when he would be allowed to attempt these things on his own, maybe a week, maybe two. It would be dull, a blind life. Very dull.

"Oh, I know what might speed things along!" she said. Before he could ask what, she had raised a napkin to his mouth and began cleaning his face. He felt himself blush. She seemed to enjoy babying him a bit too much. He hated it. "Perhaps if you told me why he was attracted to Mademoiselle Jus—"

"That won't get you anywhere."

He reached up blindly and caught her wrist, forcing her hand away from his face. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and wished he could meet her eyes. Her eyes had been blue, right? Or had they been brown? Why couldn't he remember?

"W-what do you mean?"

"We all had our reasons." He let her go and backed away, "Alois is here because he's got his head in the clouds. I just tagged along because I saw an opportunity to sweep the rug out from under their feet and score. Malo? Malo was in it for the money. _Only the money_. He could smell it on her, and not on you, that's why he ignored you and went for the real investment."

"Well—"

"And don't think it isn't because you weren't persistent enough, or you weren't subtle enough. It's simply because you weren't good enough. In romantic novels, the poor violinist may choose the red-cheeked maid, but in reality he always chooses the heiress. You, are not, an heiress."

"That has nothing—"

He opened his mouth to tell her the truth, because he knew she needed it. He knew she deserved to know. It did not matter what trouble he caused, there would be a lot less trouble if he did it. It was just like a bee's singer. It just had to be pulled out, even if it hurt. It caused more trouble in than out, right?

He could not do it.

"That has _nothing_ to do with it." Clarice said, but it sounded like it was more to herself than to him, then she said, "What is it, Basile? Are you choking?"

He was trying to force it out. He was angry with himself, because he had never been a master of tact before, so there was no reason that he should miraculously become one now, and yet, all he wanted to do was fold his hands in his lap and skirt the issue. She was just being stubborn, or maybe she was just being hopeful. Or maybe she was just being blind and stupid.

No. Not stupid. There was no way Clarice was stupid.

"Maybe." He forced himself to say, "He just needs a little time."

Was that bile he tasted?

"A... A little time?"

"Or maybe things just won't turn out like you plan." Basile told her casually, "It is possible."

"No!" Clarice replied, but once again, it was more to herself, "No, I refuse to accept that."

She would walk out of this room and make a fool of herself. She could curl her hair, paint her lips, powder her face, maybe even put on a nice dress. Did she have any, though or would she just borrow one of Justine's? He tried to remember one of Justine's dresses that would look good on a blonde, but he could not think of one. Justine looked best in bold colors, dark colors. Clarice would be swamped in all of them.

And Malo would be nice enough not to turn her down, but he would not be nice enough to play along. But, at least she had nothing of monetary value of offer him. He would not take a poor girl's money.

But Basile was still jealous, because he would never get to see her looking so nice, and Malo would, and Malo would not appreciate it. Maybe he could catch a whiff of her perfume as she skipped past him, flocking to what she really wanted.

He was just jealous.

Just like before.

"You're dense." He spat frankly, "He'll never love you, and you just won't admit it."

He heard her turn around and look at him, "W-what makes you say that?"

There was silence for a moment, as Basile weighed the pros and cons of the situation.

"Monsieur Griox—"

"He's a damn queer!"

Silence.

Fuck.

He did not even have time to say it out loud. Clarice ran away, and he scrambled up after her, knocking the tray and his breakfast over the bed and the floor. He blindly searched for his cane and when he could not find it he went to the door without it. He bruised his side on the dresser and hit his head on the wall where he thought the door was, and cursed loudly, then shouted her name.

But she was gone. He could not find her. Not like this.

So he waited. He had gotten used to waiting while he was in Justine's cellar. It was all he could do, wait, starve, and suffer. He had to commend Justine for making him a patient man. If nothing good had come of her little experiment, he had at least learned to bide his time and conserve his energy. So he waited, and listened.

He heard Clarice crying, but he could not place it, and he heard Alois walking above him, and he heard him speaking through the ceiling, but it was muffled. Still, he knew it was Alois because he could hear the cane, and he heard his nightmare of a mother telling the new staff they were doing things all wrong, and he was not sure of it, but he thought he heard Malo in the room next to his, not doing much, just walking. He did not even leave the room or say a word.

He continued to wait, until he heard footsteps and a cane coming up the hallway and a hand slamming against the wall, as if to open a door. Alois cursed, took a few steps, and tried again. The door he was trying to open was to Basile's right, and would not budge.

"Basile!" he said, "Basile, unlock this door!"

"I'm not Basile!"

"Oh! M—Malo! S-sorry. I suppose you… You heard."

Malo did not reply.

"Malo, we really should discuss this."

There was silence.

"Malo, please?"

Nothing. Then, more footsteps, and Basile's door was thrown open.

"That was perfectly cruel of you." Alois snapped, "Clarice is our friend, yes, and she deserves honesty, but you forget that—outside of a crisis—ladies are _not_ as resilient as men and they are not as fond of plain speaking under any circumstances."

And he was angry again. "So what you're saying is to let Malo break her heart and not nip this in the bud. Oh, great, let the crazy cannibal handle this !_"_

"I am saying that plain speaking and a gruff voice will not ease the transition."

"Shut up and say it like a man—"

"You are being a bothersome, irresponsible, loathsome, cynical—"

"I said spit it out."

"You're a jerk."

"Oh boo hoo."

"You're just as manipulative and spiteful as a petty, simple minded school girl and if you don't stop I shall call one of the nuns to beat you like one. She's been nothing but kind to each and every one of us, even Mademoiselle Justine. Also, I believe you owe Malo some sort of apology as well."

"I did what was best for Clarice."

"She does not seem to think so, and she spoke extensively on the subject. At least, as extensively as a young lady _can_ when she is choked up with heartbroken tears."

"Don't guilt trip me."

"You did what was best for _you._" Alois accused, tapping is cane on the ground for emphasis, "What was best for _you._"

"Listen—"

_ "You said we won't fight!_" Alois shouted, "Basile, you told me we wouldn't fight! Didn't you say that?"

"Yes."

"And that?" Alois asked, "I'm pretty sure that started a fight."

"I know."

"So, apologize."

"I know it started a fight, but I'm not sorry."

He heard Alois slapping his cane into the palm of his hand, and the blonde sighed heavily, "Fantastic."

"You're resisting the urge to hit me, aren't you."

"You're not making it very easy." Alois said sharply. He searched the room for a moment, and eventually sat down in another chair, and was silent for a long time, then, he eventually said, "We shout at least _try_ to talk too Malo."

"And do _what?"_

"I—I don't know." He laughed bitterly, "I was worried about Justine causing trouble. I guess I don't have to anymore."

"She needed to be told."

"I know." Alois sighed, "I know, you did the right thing."

"Thank you."

"Oh, no, see you just assumed I wasn't furious with you. But I actually _am,_ you cunt."

"Oh."

"Still not sorry?"

"When has _your_ approval been important to me?"

"Never." The doctor replied, "It never has been."

There was silence for a while, until Basile asked, "Just how do you feel about Clarice?"

Alois did not answer.

"Well?"

"I am just waiting." Alois replied shaprly, "For the two of you to finish each other off so I can run off with her when the dust clears."

"Really?"

"No. [1.]" Alois replied, "Clarice is like a sister to me."

And on went the silence. Alois continued to fiddle with his cane, twirling it blindly one moment, bouncing it on the floor the next. Malo walked around in his room, as if he were pacing. Basile knew Alois could hear it too, because he dropped his voice low.

"Neither one of us has spoken to him sense things..."

"Returned to normal?" Basile offered.

"Changed." Alois corrected, "This is not normal, still. Not yet."

"I don't want to talk to him." Basile crossed his arms and leaned against the head board.

"_Well that's devilishly convenient because he does not want to talk to you!"_

It was not Alois that had said that, though he had probably been about to say something along those lines. Something like: 'It would probably be best if you did not anyway.' It was Malo that spoke, from the other side of the wall. He slammed his hand against it for emphasis. They both jumped. They both had flashbacks. Malo hissed in pain and it broke the illusion. He had not shown pain when he burst through doors in the dungeon.

Basile did not let a memory bug him. He turned towards the wall he shared with Malo and shouted, "Unlock that door."

Silence.

"Malo!" Still nothing, "Damn it Malo!... You're such a drama queen!"

"He's the drama queen?"

"Alois! Don't take his side!"

"I'm not." He said, "Someone's got to pull you to apart when you start fighting... Aside from, you know, a locked door."

"Malo, open the door or I'll break it down."

"Shut up!" Malo shouted, "Damn it, Basile, think about someone else for a while—"

"I'm thinking about Clarice. Why the hell won't you?"

"Don't you think I am?" he shouted, "What do you think I'm doing in here? I'm beating myself up trying to figure out that the _hell_ I'm going to do."

"Oh, yeah, you've got it rough. You—"

"Basile." Alois said firmly.

He did not need to say any more. Basile got the message. Shut up.

"You can still see." He hissed. "You've got _Clarice._"

* * *

[1.] I think Alois is like Wilson. He is only attracted to needy women, or women like Amber. (Gotta love House, which is a third reason Alois is a doctor. House.)

Speaking of medical drama: about halfway through this chapter, I did some research on 'hysteria' which is what Mdm. Racine and Doctor Fourneir were supposed to diagnose Justine with. The treatment is… um… Well, it puts an interesting turn on… Alois' role as the medic, to say the VERY least.


	9. Chapter 8, PII ch3

Amnesia: Clarice

(Disclaimed.)

I'm... Uh, back.

It's not the BEST chapter in the world but... It's pretty funny.

Because lolz are the cure for everything.

* * *

Chapter three:

Malo's days had fallen into a pattern.

At first, when Madame Racine—who was exactly like Alois, but with a corset and without any medical knowledge—had not been around to stick her nose into everything and find feeble criticisms with Clarice's housekeeping it had just been a nun that had brought him his meals. They had a system going. She would knock on the door, and he would unlock it. He would take the tray, she would shut the door. They would never speak a word to each other; they would never even look each other in the eye. It was cold. It was emotionless. It was efficient.

Leave it to Alois to mess with that pattern.

Well, not really Alois. It was actually just Madame Racine—who made Alois look like the patron saint of indifference. She had displaced Madame Marot, and instead of striking up a good friendship with Basile (because Clarice was NOT speaking to him) the inspector's wife had in turn displaced the Mother Superior. Things had proceeded as normal for the first day, he had unlocked the door, but instead of stern silence, he was greeted with a 'Good morning.' And she had proceeded to attempt—and fail—to draw him out of his shell. He had taken the tray, slammed the door, and had locked it quickly, before she had time to open it again.

She had been saying something. About how she should be talking to people.

He had not really listened.

He just wanted to curl up and be alone for a while. He had gotten used to being completely alone, and only lashing out when Basile spoke to him through the wall.

His days had fallen into a pattern. After his breakfast, he changed the bandages on his hands and feet, then he would just... Lay there. And do... Nothing, because he did not _want_ to do anything.

Then the Mother superior would bring him his lunch, and the same thing would happen, and at dinner, the same thing would happen, occasionally Alois would stop by and attempt to speak with him, but Malo did not say a word.

It was the second day Madame Marot was assigned to him.

And oh boy, was she was going to screw with that pattern.

She knocked on the door and he unlocked it, as always. And he opened it, as always, but when the door was fully open, two blurs that looked like a pair of blonde male twins shot out from behind her skirts. One grabbed his arm, the other jerked they key from his bandaged fingers, and as quickly as they appeared, they vanished again, safely behind their mother. As if nothing had happened, she handed him the tray and slammed the door. He heard them running away, laughing, key in hand.

He stared at the wood for a moment, bewildered and miffed, until he heard uproar of cheers and laughter from the parlor. He set the tray down and opened the door to hear properly.

"Darling!" Inspector Marot exclaimed, "I'm falling in love with you all over again!"

"Do you mean to say you fell _out_ of love, Felix?"

There was more laughter. Malo shut the door and barricaded it with a single chair under the knob, and sat down to eat, wondering when they would try to force him out. They never did. He took the dish of water that was brought to him every day and washed his face and neck, then his hands and feet. Today he did not replace the bandages on his hands. They were healed, possibly even limber enough to play music again. He had thought they would scar up, but they did not. He frowned and looked at the scaring bite-marks on his arm. Long sleeves would cover them.

He hoped.

He heard footsteps coming down the hallway. They were light and clipping, the kind made by Clarice's short heels. They stopped at his door, and he worried for a moment that she was going to open the door, but either she had never heard that the key had been stolen, or she did not want to talk to him, because he just heard and saw three sheets of paper being slipped under the door, and she left.

Oh, that was Clarice. That was defiantly Clarice. Malo walked towards the pages and picked them up. He saw the first word on the first page and he grimaced. _Justine._ This was a solo piece he had written while he had been pretending to be in the throes of love—and honestly he had seriously thought he was going to be landing the gig. No one could _blame_ him for wanting a meal ticket. Most artist either gave up or starved to death, unless they had a rich patron, a rich relative or unnatural talent. Malo had the last one, and unnatural talent was never a measuring tool for success. You got nowhere without money, and Malo knew this.

He laid down on his bed, his face up to the ceiling and the sheet music held before his nose. He had spent years scraping by, playing for scraps in the streets. He knew all too well money made the world turn.

Aside from a little burnt corner, (which he honestly did not remember, it must have been Clarice's doing) it seemed in good condition. The paper was even warm, as if she had ironed them flat. She must have tried to destroy them in jealousy, or perhaps just guilt. No, if she had wanted to forget about them, she would have left them to die, and she would not have saved their clothing.

It had been two weeks, and yet he could still not lay flat or stand straight without his body wanting to slouch because of that damn brace Justine had forced him into. No one wanted to watch a slouching musician, and defiantly not one with facial scars. Maybe if his face had been carved, and he was slouched, _and_ he was blind, people would watch him if his specialties were darker, edgier pieces, out of some sick, twisted sympathy. He could play blind; he had never had much use for sheet music, anyway. He was self-taught, he played by ear.

He did not need his eyes. Why had Justine let him keep them, when she had taken the others? Just to spite him? To make him feel guilty? Alois could not work blind, Basile was basically useless even before he was blind, but now even the _possibility_ of a productive future was gone. He knew why she had carved his face, it was because—stupidly—he had thought that pretty face would get him somewhere.

He supposed, she had let him keep his eyes so he could _see_ what had become of that face.

He turned onto his side and sat up in bed. Normally, there would be a mirror in front of him, but he had taken it down and had turned it to the wall. He tried to imagine how he one looked, but all he could visualize was that new, mauled version of himself, staring back at him from the water in the flooded dungeon. He had only one thing to distract him, and that had been two weeks' worth of Clarice's life. Justine had chosen the weeks _well_ too.

He had wanted to be blind, so much. It had gotten more personal each time she took one of them down, until even the environment—a giant mirror which he had been forced to look upon—was used against him. It was not because Justine hated him. No. It was just because she had gotten better at what she did best.

He walked over to the mirror and picked it up, turning it around. He did not look so bad now. Sure, the silk threads looked a little odd and he would always be scarred, but now that it was not festering and hanging open, it was not nearly as horrifying. No one would even be able to see it from a distance, he could—

Then he felt horrible again. He could force himself to stand up straight, and his muscles would get used to a rigid posture again. His fingers would be able to play. He would be able to _see_. He could still preform, except it would not get him anywhere, would it? No.

He had what the other two needed, a chance to get back to normal life.

He looked at the sheet music. The tune did not suit Justine. It was just something he had whipped up and had _called_ Justine to win her favor. Really, a tune this light and bouncy suited Clarice. Malo picked up a pen and crossed out Justine's name, and wrote Mademoiselle Clarice's name.

Then he felt bad again. Any idiot could look at this piece and tell it had originally been called Justine. It felt like cheating. He crumpled up the papers and lit and tossed them aside, sulking. He looked at his un-bandaged hand, and he had the urge to play, but not that warped violin. No, it had seen him through good and bad times, but it was time to retire it. Dip it bronze, hang it on the mantle, whatever.

He un-barricaded the door and looked out into the hallway. It was a short dash from his door to the flight of stairs leading to the top floor, which was never, ever used. It had not been used since Madame Florbelle had passed on, and it was where a great many things had been put away, never to be used again. Malo had discovered once, much to his delight, that one of the rooms had been filled with musical instruments. There was a piano in one sitting room and a cello in another, but in this room there was a sturdy, noble harp.

It was a misconception that Malo's abilities were limited to the violin. No, anything with strings, he could make sing, even if he had never played it before. If it was in tune, he could get the jist of it within two hours, if it was not in tune, he could tune it in about three hours and have mastered in it under five. Such was the case with this harp.

He looked back down the stairs to make sure he had not been followed, and then he crept down the third-floor corridor to the music room. It was a splendid little parlor, with nick-nacks hidden amongst the stings. Malo ignored them and pushed back the curtains at the two windows and opened the glass to let in light and air, because it was late spring now and it could get rather warm on the third floor. He stripped off his tunic next and tossed it aside, so he was simply standing in the center of the mess in his trousers and suspenders and went straight to where he had left the harp and chair.

It was a bit awkward to mount it against his shoulder now that he knew Clarice had stopped to watch him once or twice, but he let it slide, focused on sitting up strait, and began to play, letting his fingers pluck lazily at first, repeating passages that he liked until they were memorized. He stared out the widow, over the vast plot of land that the Florbells owned.

He thought about Clarice, and wondered if she would get over this on her own or if he should find her and explain how horrible he felt about the entire thing. It was not that he did not like her as a person, after all. She was a wonderful person. She was practically the embodiment of everything good in the world, and she was a damn fine cook. She had street smarts, and he could easily see that she was physically attractive, it was just... Well, she did not have to worry about her happily ever after it just was not going to be with him.

Someone was watching him. He could feel it.

Was it Clarice?

Oh, it was totally Clarice. Who else knew he would come up here? Well, it was time to bring everything out into the open, so he set the harp up again and turned the chair around.

It _wasn't_ Clarice.

It was the Marot twins, they both looked guilty. And they _were_ guilty! They had been in cahoots with their mother, of course, as sons often were, but they had still stolen his room key, and Malo had no idea who had it currently. It might very well be them, come to return it.

Who would have thought it? A _policeman's_ sons were capable of stealing. Of course, they had only wanted to help, and they might have just been obeying their parents, like a good pair of twins, and now they were returning what belonged to him, like a good pair of twins.

"Are you here to give my key back?" he asked.

They shook their heads in unison.

He looked at them, because he expected them to state their business and leave, or better yet, just _leave_. But they did not. They shared a glance, then looked at him, then looked down. Their hands were behind their backs, as if they were hiding something. Pierre nudged Filipe and Felipe nudged back. Malo sighed in frustration, "What? What is it?"

Neither one replied.

When Malo turned around in the stool they made a break for it, running down the hall and down the stairs. He shrugged, turned back to the harp, and continued to play.

Until another person came up the stairs.

He turned again to see Alois standing there, cane in hand. His hair had started to grow back now, but you could hardly see it because it was so light. He was wearing the blue coat Malo had first met him in.

"Malo? So this is where you've gotten too?"

"Yes."

"How are you?"

"Fine." Malo played a little louder because he _knew_ Alois could hear it, "I'm working on something."

"Oh?" Alois asked. Malo frowned. He had _meant_ it as a clue to go away, but the doctor was only intrigued. He sat down on a tarp-covered chair after some searching, "What?"

"Never you mind."

Alois did not say much after a while. Malo continued to improvise on the harp, attempting to find a sequence of notes that sounded right, but he had no real idea what he was looking for, not now that Alois was here. There was another prolonged silence after Alois cleared his throat, but he still said nothing. Malo stopped playing to pass him a mean glare, because Alois had just cut off his focus. The blonde did not seem to notice. Malo turned back to the harp.

Alois piped up, _right in the middle of a fantastic eight-count,_ "It's a bit stuffy up here, don't you think?"

"I don't mind." Malo hissed sharply.

Alois took the hint. He stood up, nodded good-day and left. Malo savored the privacy for a moment, then tried to bring back the inspiration he had just felt two seconds ago. It had been something heroic. Something happy. Something that _really_ did Mademoiselle Clarice justice. He turned to a table beside the harp, which held a messy stack of blank sheet music and set it on a stand before him with a mostly-empty vial of ink and a flimsy quill-pen.

Then he stared at it. The muse had run off. The feeling was gone. "Damn it, Alois!"

So it was back to improv.

_Then someone else walked up the stairs._

Malo's head whipped around to the door as a man in a monocle meandered down the hallway and eventually reached his not-so-secret room. It was Doctor Fourneir, note pad in hand. Malo recalled he had once had a curling mustache, but that had fallen out with the rest of his hair. He was not as young as the suitors, it had not come back yet. Malo watched, obviously miffed, as he sat down uninvited, without a word, on the chair Alois had occupied previously.

"Can I help you?" Malo asked.

He laughed, the smug snake! "Well no, obviously not!"

Malo, for such a pretty face, had a remarkably spiteful glare. He did not hesitate to use it now, and he was positive the lines on his cheeks only made it worse. Victor Fourneir looked towards the windows, and tapped his pen against the notepad, "—but Malo, I'd like to talk to you about this... Well this _problem_ you see to have..."

He pointed a tuning fork at the Doctor, as one would a sword, "You are_ not_ the first psychologist I have spoken to, you know, and they all say the same thing. Go away."

He frowned, took off his monocle, and polished it on his shirt. Then, he tried again, "I don't think you understand—"

And Malo wished, oh so much, that he had an electric device that could amplify sound. Of course, he would have to use something more formidable than a harp for that, more like a guitar, or even an electric violin would be nice, so long as it was obnoxious and loud. Either way, he felt like making very loud, angry, awful music, just to drive the psychologist away. "Go." He commanded.

He polished his monocle again, and walked out. Once again, Malo savored the privacy and thought to himself, _Clarice may have come up here, but at least she was _quiet_ about it! Jesus! Well, as long as Alois' _mother_ doesn—Oh no._

He sighed heavily and let the harp sit up straight again, because someone _else_ was walking up the stairs now. He swiveled the chair around and leaned back. Basile had tromped in this time, fumbling around with his cane. He did not actually enter the room, and after nearly tripping over a Cello case, Malo could not blame him.

"Look, Malo, I'm sorry—"

"Fuck off."

"Okay."

He tromped back down the hallway and down the stairs. Malo had barely gotten turned _back_ around before someone _else_ came in. It was Inspector Marot this time, and judging from the look on his face, he was about to give some fatherly lecture on being happily married.

"I don't want to hear about how wonderfully fascinating having a wife is, Inspector."

His smile dropped, "I was just going to tell you Clarice is a nice girl and—"

"I know she's nice, Inspector Marot. Please leave."

He turned around, Malo called after him, a sharp quip forming in his mind suddenly, "Oh, Inspector, if there is a queue on the stairs, tell them all to leave."

Inspector Marot did not respond, but he did twitch a little before leaving the room, and back Malo went to playing. It lasted for about two seconds until someone else came up the stairs.

"Malo, my son—"

"Oh my _GOD_ you really are standing in a line in the stairwell, aren't you?" the violinist exclaimed.

Father David laughed cheerfully and shook his head. He sat down in the tarp covered chair and asked simply, "How do you feel?"

"Upset." He said, "I'm _trying_ to write a harp solo, but nooooo—"

"Why?"

"Well I dunno!" he snapped, "I'm trying to work things out on my own but people just keep coming in here. I mean, how would you feel when you're trying to write a nice mass and you keep getting distracted?"

"Fair enough." The old priest said, "But I seem to recall the most common distraction was you."

Malo had to put an _effort_ up to keep playing, "Well, I was a child without parents." He offered, "I just wanted attention."

"No." Father David told him, "No, Malo, you were a good boy. You're _still_ a good boy, you know."

"I'm not going to change."

He tried to be angry, but he just could not manage it. Father David was the kind of person you did not get angry with, because even if you tried, he just let you blind anger slide like ice on a hot day, and when it got away from him, it got away from you. He was a man that seemed to behave as if he was constantly listening to confessions. The old man smiled, shrugged, and stood up. Malo took a note that he did not say anything holier-than-thou like 'God bless you' or 'I'll pray for you.' He just said, "We will talk some other time, if you like."

And he left him shaking with anger an annoyance in the stuffy, hot silence. His entire torso hurt from keeping strait and he had to leave the harp and curl up on the canvass-covered chair. It was physically wearing, trying to keep posture. It had never been like that before. At least the chair was soft, even if the canvass was stiff and scratchy. He closed his eyes for a moment, running over what little he had managed to compose in his head while the muscles stopped hurting so much. He would sit up straight until he was sore in the morning. He _would_ get back to normal.

He was the only one of the three that _could_ return to some semblance of normal. He had to. For the others.

Someone was coming up the stairs again, softly this time, as if they were trying to sneak up on him and spring some sort of moral argument on him. He pressed his forehead against his knees and a cool breeze from the outside brushed against his back. The footsteps were slow, careful, deliberately avoiding the squeaky floorboards. If he had been playing the harp he would not have noticed.

She reached the door, and then she stopped. Malo's heart stopped for a moment, and the color drained from his face. Maybe he was hidden by the chair. Maybe she could not see him. No, she knew he was there, that was why she was here, right?

Oh, this was awkward.

Malo waited for a while, and neither one said a word, until it got to the point that he was certain Clarice was not even there at all. He sighed heavily and gave up waiting for her to speak. He must have imagined it. He was just settling down again, when he heard footsteps quickly retreating down the hallway. She was not even bothering to hide the fact that she had been standing there, or maybe she thought he was not there. Maybe she honestly had not seen him.

No. She had seen him.

But then, wouldn't she have been quieter in leaving, if she had?

Unless she wanted to see if he would follow her?

Oh, peachy.

Malo straightened up again, forcing his muscles to straighten out, they had been forced to remain contracted for a month and a half, at least. He had lost track of time down in the dungeon.

Did he want to follow her?

Well, yes and no.

Yes, because it was probably the responsible thing to do. He could not just sweep this entire episode under the rug and act like it never happened. He would look at himself in the mirror and he was associate the scars with the fact that Clarice had never gotten any form of closure.

No, because he _hated_ initiating a confrontation—so far confrontation had only been brought to him—and things would probably end in a confrontation.

He should never have left the room. He should just try to sneak back quietly and stay there. He covered the harp again and crept down the hallway, avoiding the squeaking boards as easily has Clarice had done before. The hall and the sitting room were both empty, so he managed to get back to the door of his room without meeting anyone.

The door was locked.

Fuck.

* * *

There are two cut lines from here, that were honestly too silly to use given the situation, a brief exchange between Mdm. Marot and Malo:

"Malo—"

And Malo did not even bother turning around this time, instead he delivered, in the most serious of voices, "I nearly ate your husband alive, kindly go away."


	10. Chapter 9 PII ch 4

Amnesia: Clarice

Justine will show up in the epilogue, if nothing else.

Also, I kinda-sorta want to write Felix/Teresa's backstory, explain the white rose you find in his cell, how they met and what not.

It'd be, like, a film noir, but set in France circa 1840. Yeah. Definantly.

* * *

Chapter four:

What is bad that he was nearly moved to tears every time he saw his children? Because it was true. He had missed them so, so much. When he had been trapped in that cell, and later in that dungeon, with no means of escape and with the only protection from a cannibalistic violinist being a heavy metal door, they were all he could think about, about how much his boys would miss their daddy and the littlest one would never even know he existed. Not really.

He was already worried that Marion had lost her need for him. The girl treated him with respect, of course, but he did not care about respect if he was scared she had grown apart from him. She greeted him and breakfast every morning and bid him sleep well at the end of every day, but there used to be so much more to their relationship. He had been gone, what, one, maybe two months at most? He had lost track of time underground. Was that really enough time to get over her father's assumed death and move on?

She was only twelve!

She used to kiss him good night, but she certainly didn't do that anymore.

Then again, she was twelve, and that was just four years away from being sixteen, so maybe being without a father had made her mature a bit faster, think about the future. He did not want to think about it. She spent more time with Alois than she did him, because the two seemed to share a love of poetry, but—Alois confided in him just yesterday—she almost seemed to have a slightly distressing love of _dark_ poetry: "_If there was one more poem in 'Les Fleurs du Mal'"_ he had said,_ "I would have killed myself!"_

Now, Felix had never read Les Fleurs du Mal, he was not fond of poetry, really, but Alois had assured him that it was _not_ proper subject matter for a girl her age, or indeed anyone her age. And, while it was quite worry some, she was going to read someone else entirely next, and it was entirely possible that _all_ of the poetry in Justine's collection was dark and controversial, or at least mildly misanthropic, so Marion was not entirely at fault, and there was no real cause to worry. "_Besides,_" Alois had assured him, "_It was my morbid fascination with the human body that made me become a surgeon, so she'll probably turn it into some healthy career on her own. She's still young._"

Inspector Marot wondered if Alois was now sitting through an equally dark poet right now. He had not seen Marion at breakfast, or anytime between then and now. Perhaps she had gone to the library to get an early start on book hunting, and had simply forgotten she had to eat. Well, that was like Marion, at least.

Felix sat by the window and watched his sons bob in and out of the overgrown green of the Florbelle's back garden. It used to be such a grand thing, tended to every day by servants, but they had run away, and there was so much to do inside the house that it still remained unkempt. Filipe and Pierre loved it, though, being young and prone to exploring. They had been rather upset to learn that they were _not_ allowed to explore the sealed-off property under the house. Perhaps they wanted to find a secret way in.

He wondered, briefly, if there _was_ another way in. After all, Justine had only ever come by one way, and it had been dangerous to get past Malo even _once_. Twice was a spectacular feat. He could investigate it on his own, but he thought about it and he dreaded it. He would not attempt it alone. It had been hard enough the last time.

But you know what he had really missed?

His _wife._

So much.

And, she had obviously missed him. When she had arrived at the Florbelle estate, tears streaming down her cheeks, skirts gathered in her hands and screaming his name, she had not bothered to take off her hat, or her mantle. She had just barreled straight into him.

His first thought had been: _I only wish we had left on bad terms so I could feel even more joy her even _more_._ And his second thought was: _My _god_ she's wearing the dress I married her in! She still fits into it? She hasn't aged a day!_

And one would think that they had only been married for a few months with how much they embraced and kiss and carried on (and in view of the _everyone_ besides!) and sure it was the talk of the police force in mainland Calais, and then in Paris when word got there—because the lord above never meant for men to miss and love their wives with such fire—but Felix did not care. If the abundance of children and the open fondness the two had for each other proved nothing, then maybe his word would: Teresa and Felix Marot had been married for thirteen wonderful years and _yes_, he did want the world to know about it.

Call him juvenile. Call him forward thinking, if you want. It was true.

He looked away from his sons to Teresa, who was just setting little Suzanne down to play on a blanket in the center of the room. The infant had recently been set down for a nap, but she was awake now. She had only been ten months old when he had been called away to investigate Justine, which had not been enough time to form any real memories. Still, she did not cry hysterically like he was some stranger, and she did seem to mind that he was practically emaciated. Compared to the smooth, womanly features of her mother, he was a shrunken mirror of his former self.

She was still gorgeous.

And that clever swindling of Malo's key this morning?

That was just criminal!

But that was his Teresa, sharp as a tack. She was so sharp she caught him watching her. She raised an eyebrow and straightened up, smoothing out her skirt. She pushed a stray curl behind her ear and he found himself grinning shamelessly.

"Dear," she asked teasingly when she sat down beside him, "Why do you have that look in your eye?"

"Darling, you know perfectly well what that look means."

She laughed and scooted closer to him, resting her hand lightly on his knee. He draped an arm around her shoulders and she asked, smiling, "Felix, in the middle of the day? With little Marion here?"

"If you insist, my dear." He casually joked, "Aren't you insatiable? Felt a bit unsatisfied without me?"

She teasingly feigned indifference. "Oh, it's not like it was you in particular. I had a string of affairs, you know, but I just kept thinking to myself: This one just doesn't hold a candle to Felix."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, really?"

She gave him a wickedly seductive grin, and raised a hand to the top button of her dress.

Then there was a loud, shocking, and _mood killing_ banging at the door.

"The _key_!" a voice from the hallway demanded, "Now! I know you have it, Madame Marot!"

Felix and his wife both turned to the door and shared a grin. Oh, yes. The _key_.How could he have forgotten so easily?

They heard Malo try the door and it swung open easily. He strode into the room, trying to look like he had drive and purpose, but he also wore a lighter version of that _look_ that Inspector Marot had seen on many a criminal. It was just that look that gave everything away. He was harmless, now. Whatever had made him a monster before (probably starvation and lack of sunlight—it would do the trick for anyone) was gone now and he was not going to hurt a fly.

"Where is the key?"

"I'm sorry." Teresa replied calmly, "I can't give it to you."

"You _will _give it to me!" Malo looked around like an amateur burglar that had not done his recon and now had about twenty seconds to get his prize and get out. He heard a baby's laughter at his feet, and knelt down. He tried to pick up Suzanne and _stand_ but she was far too heavy for him. So, he just pulled her into his lap and remained on the floor.

"Or I'll turn this little one around and scare the daylights out of her."

They both looked at him questioningly. Teresa actually had to suppress a laugh.

"How?" Felix asked, "Malo, now that you're well fed and in decent light, I must admit you're not very scary."

He was, for a moment, haunted by the image of the old Malo eating his little girl, and the thought made him sick, but he knew the boy wouldn't do that. He raised his hand and pointed at the line of stitches.

"With this—" his weak, one-armed hold on Suzanne faltered. He reached down quickly. She seemed to think it was glorious fun, "—hideous deformity."

"Oh, now really!" Teresa chided.

Then Malo turned Suzanne around and stared at her, showing the little infant the most terrifying smile he could, as if he honestly expected his cut face to bother her. Felix watched a bit with apprehension, because he knew it would be a blow to his confidence if she was scared, despite being exactly what he wanted. But she was not. She was quite a brave little girl, after all. Instead, she laughed brightly, and reached forward to touch his wide and slightly creepy grin. Malo's mad smile relaxed into a pout and he set Suzanne down.

"Perfect." He grumbled, "Can you give me the key _anyway_, or do I have to attempt to bully your sons and just wind up playing catch with them or something?"

"Well, you can certainly play with our boys, Malo." Teresa offered graciously, "If you'd like to be paid to babysit, I'd be more than happy to sort something out with you. Pierre said he was interested in learning the violin, perhaps you could give him—"

"No."

"—Well do whatever you like. You can even take our oldest daughter shopping on the mainland in a botched attempt to sell her into slavery—"

"Now that's just low."

"—But we don't have your room key."

"Then who does?"

"Clarice."

"I take it back. _That's_ low." He put his hands on his hips, still pouting, "Where is she?"

"In her room." Teresa replied, "Sulking, I'd imagine."

Malo's comical pout became a genuine frown and he looked truly remorseful. Felix felt sorry for him then, genuinely sorry. It was not really _his_ fault he had wound up in this sad state of affairs, now was it? Honestly, who could really hold him at fault?

Well, okay, he had gone after money when he certainly wasn't interested in who came with it, but... Well, that was the way of things. Money just held power. If you could not make it, you married it. Felix knew this well.

But at the same time, he knew the two had to sort out this mess on their own. They _could_ just let it blow over, but then where would the closure be? Lost. Lost with everything else.

Without a word the violinist turned on his heel, and without a word Teresa stood up and followed him, stopping only to pick up Suzanne, and Felix followed her. The three went to Clarice's room. It was the only bed room on the first floor that was not filled with nuns and their habits, and it was also the only one with a closed door. There was a note on the door, Malo looked at it, took something that was hanging from the door knob, and turned around

He saw the couple standing in the hallway before him and he smirked before striding past them. They went to examine the door and the note attached to it.

_ I am terribly sorry about the trouble the others have caused for you, Monsieur de Vigney. You probably want to avoid speaking to me and it is all the same to me. You may take your key and leave if you wish. _

"No!" Teresa exclaimed, "No! Just _no_!"

She handed Suzanne to him, and Felix watched, beaming, as she proudly walked forward, took Malo by the ear, and dragged him back to Clarice's door. She slapped her hand against the door rapidly, "Mademoiselle Laurent, come out here at once!"

No response. She turned to Malo, "You see how _difficult_ you are?"

"How is this _my_ fault? If she does not want to talk to me—and she has every right not to want to—then I don't see why forcing her will help. And would you _please _let go?I tune my violin with that ear!"

"Mademoiselle Laurent! Get out here at once!" his wife shouted as she pounded away at the door. Not a noise was heard from inside. Teresa stopped banging away and in a softer tone said, "Clarice, dear, _please_!"

There was still silence. Even Malo had stopped complaining.

"Come out, _Cherie_."

"Can you let go of me _now_?" he asked tentatively.

"No!" Teresa said. "No I won't!" She obviously felt a bit miffed, and extremely bothered by this. She tweaked his hear and ever so slightly.

"This isn't my fault!" he insisted.

"Oh hush!" she replied. "No one's blaming you. You're simply the red-headed stepchild of the universe."

"Hey!" Malo said, trying to forcibly peel her fingers from his ear, "Let go! Are you blind? She slipped a note under the door!"

With that distraction, she let him go, looking down. Felix did not see any note, even as his wife stepped back. He expected Malo to make a break for it, but he bent over, picked up his wife's skirt and lifted it to her knee—Felix would _kill him!—_and snatched up a piece of paper. He stepped away from Teresa and started scanning it quickly. As he got further down the letter, his eyes traveled more slowly, really soaking in what it had to say. His face paled, his eyes widened, he tensely licked his lower lip and then began to bite it thoughtfully, his brows knitting. Felix watched him, his own apprehension growing. Even Teresa looked concerned.

"What is it, Malo?"

He looked up at them, a strange mix of pity and relief and guilt flooding his green eyes, "The sanitarium on the mainland... They won't let Justine come back."

"What?" Teresa asked, "What do you mean?"

"Here." He held the letter back out, "It must have just arrived. They said she wasn't qualified, which, that's true, I'll admit, but it was still something she wanted to do."

And Teresa read the letter, and was upset, and then Felix handed her Suzanne to read it over himself and that _was_ the basic extent of it. Clarice had neither the money or the funds or the ability to handle a hysteric of such caliber, if she could employ someone who _could_, only then could Justine receive personal care in her own home. Hers was the worst case they had ever seen, and so it was imperative that she be institutionalized and studied.

"Perhaps..." Teresa offered, "A-alois could help her, or perhaps Doctor Forneir."

"Oh?" Malo asked, "You're right, they are both doctors. We should at least give it a try."

So the three went to the sun room Alois had taken a fancy to sitting in. It was a bit like a back porch, but walled in on three sides by a wire mesh, the fourth wall was the side of the manor house.

Normally, Marion would be with him, or his mother. His mother would be pounding his ears with one criticism after another, and Marion would be reading something to him, either the paper or a volume of poetry, but neither one was there. Neither was Basile, but strong masculine laughter from the open window seemed to imply that he was outside somewhere, presumably with Pierre and Filipe.

"And who is this? Its sounds like there are three of you."

"It's us—" Felix started, "I mean, the Marots, and Malo. We need to talk. About Justine."

"Oh?" he was curious.

"The mainland won't let her come back here."

"Oh." he was devastated.

"She's got hysteria." Malo informed him, "Apparently, really _bad_ hysteria and they want to study—"

"Hysteria is such a blasé diagnosis." Alios openly scoffed, "It's diddly. It's a catchall. Whatever Justine has it should not be part of that catch-all. _Most_ women with hysteria are actually fine, functional people; this is generally because most of them are diagnosed with it. If we got about five doctors, and all of them talked to Clarice, I guarantee her at least _one_ would say she's got it. I mean, even your _daughter _had symptoms of hysteria."

"Such as?"

"I mean no offence, Inspector." Alois said matter-of-factly. "She's a good girl. But a doctor with only half of my capacity would look at her, say, 'Goodness what a sociable girl, and she reads dark poetry—there must be something wrong with her.'"

"She's only twelve!"

"Calm down." Alois said soothingly from his chair, "Calm down, I was only making an example."

"So, do you know what the treatment is?" Malo asked, "You could treat Justine?"

Alois was quiet for a moment.

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Yes." He said after a third long, quite moment, "And it won't be much trouble for me to do it."

If the look on his face was anything to go by, he was hiding something. His cheeks and ears were bright red and his chin was tilted downwards. His hands tightened on his cane, like he was ashamed of something. Inspector Marot was put on edge instantly.

"What _is_ the treatment?"

His blind eyes looked up, "W-what was that now?"

Felix, ready for action, handed Suzanne to Teresa. She stepped back. "If my daughter might have it, I should very well know."

"Ah..." he turned his head, as if to look off into the distance. Whatever it was, he did not want to discuss it. Felix crossed his arm, ready and willing to accept the challenge. He was an _inspector_, if he had to use a few interrogation techniques, he would do it. "Well..."

"Come to think of it," Malo interrupted. "If someone could diagnose Mademoiselle Laurent with it, I'm kind of curious as well. What are the symptoms, even, if it's so common?"

Alois laughed awkwardly, rubbed the back of his head, and fiddled with his cane.

"Monsieur Racine?" Felix asked slowly.

"It's not something for... _civilized_ company to discuss."

Now it was _their_ turn to be silent. It was Felix who spoke first, determined to go into full investigation mode if he had to. Alois was hiding something, damn it. There probably _was_ something wrong with Marion. "What do you mean?"

That earned them another awkward laugh, "Really, Inspector, you're taking this far too seriously! I realize you're worried about your daughter, but psychology today is simply a huge joke. They have absolutely no idea what they are doing and what they are talking about. The current list of symptoms is at least seventy pages long, and any given patient only has to meet five, I think, but some doctors are just handing it out willy nilly, like the patient only has to meet _one_ symptom; and one symptom is simply having a vagin—Ah, goodness! Madame Marot, you're still here, aren't you? I'm so sorry! I have to watch what I say. Do forgive me."

"The organ is not alien to me. Do continue."

He laughed awkwardly again, and flipped his cane up, separating them, Malo and his wife on one side, Felix on the other. He must have thought that was a good way to clear room for him to stand and escape. Felix was not going for it. Despite protests, he leaned forward and clasped his hands on either one of his wrists. He did not bother getting close, because Alois was blind. Physical intimidation would be completely lost on him, but he did make eye contact. It was habit. Alois may be blind, but his eyes did still move the same.

"You are going to tell me." Felix demanded, holding him down in the chair. The blind man did not even try struggling, "Or I will use every interrogation technique I know."

"I don't want to!" he replied. His eyebrows knitted and his eyes flickered from left to right, "It's awkward."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think Justine has it but I'm volunteering to treat her for it anyway. You'll think I'm some sort of pervert." There was a pause, Felix retreated physically as Alois added quickly, "I've said too much."

"You will tell me what the treatment is this minute!"

"Good heavens, no!" Alois stood up, raising the cane as if to prod at his windpipe. The Inspector jumped out of reach, and hand to his throat. The doctor continued. "You're going to run right out, enlist some psychologist, and have him give her a... A... It's not Madame Marot I'm worried about its Malo. He's got such a weak constitution."

"I'll deal with it." Malo told him, "Now I'm curious. What is it?"

"... A... A pel..." His voice got soft and muddled.

"A what?" Felix asked, "Damn it man, tell me!"

"Oh, blast it!" Alois huffed, "A thousand doctors have explained this to a thousand concerned parents and I can't do it because I'm friends with you: intercourse if married, marriage if single. If this cannot be done the doctor on call should administer—"

Inspector Marot, filled with concern for his daughter, punched him. The doctor stopped him from delivering another blow by jamming his cane, handle first, into his midsection and pushing him back. He remained seated, a hand to his jaw, gently prodding to see if it was bruised or broken. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he spoke. "Ouch. You were right, Madame, he _is _certainly impressive."

"I'm terribly sorry about that."

"It's fine." He dropped his hand, "As I said, it's a silly treatment for a silly diagnosis. Honestly, I don't even think hysteria is_ real_."

But Felix only heard half of it. He had begun stalking away, his shoulders slumped. He threw open the sitting room door and nearly ran straight into Doctor Fournier. He tried his best not to glare, even when he polished his monocle, put it back on, cleared his throat and said, "Inspector Marot?"

"What?"

"I need to talk to you. It's about your daughter—"

"Oh not you don't!"

* * *

Someone on the wiki pointed out that Basile is/was a carpenter.

Well, now I know, but I still like him the way I wrote him: unable to keep a job. So, maybe his most _recent_ job was a carpenter.

And an incredibly lame pun that hit me this chapter that I should have used last chapter:

_You could really say Malo got... Harp'ed on!_


	11. Chapter 10 PII ch 5

Amnesia: Clarice.

(disclaimed.)

**You've been given two chapters this time. Be sure to read both. I don't care how you handle reviews.**

* * *

Chapter five:

Victor Fournier inspected his jaw, "I understand about Alois, but why the devil did he punch _me?_"

"I'm terribly sorry." Madame Marot sad. She handed Suzanne to Malo, who looked completely distressed about the idea, and hesitant. He opened his mouth to protest, but she had bent over. She slapped Victor's hand down and began poking at his jaw for him, giving it a hard, knowing look, "My husband has just learned what the treatment for Hysteria is. He must have thought you were about to diagnose our daughter with it. He's a very good father, you see, and he wouldn't stand for it."

"What?"

"Do tell me that _isn't_ what you were going to tell him?"

"Good heavens no!" Victor replied, "There's nothing wrong with that child!"

"Then what was it?"

"She's missing."

"What?"

"Yes. She is missing." Alois said, "She had told me last night she had found a copy of Candide, but she hasn't been here."

"That's very unlike her. Did she go out this morning?"

"Not that I know of." Victor answered, "I've asked your sons, and they say she had not been seen all day. I've checked the library for her, because Alois said she might be there."

"That's very unlike her." Mademoiselle Marot said again, "Have you asked Clar—No, of course you haven't asked Mademoiselle Laurent. She is not speaking to anyone." She straightened up and crossed her arms, frowning. Malo tried to hand the baby back to her, but she did not take it.

And then Victor Fournier watched as something wondrous happened.

The intuition of a true mother was something marvelous to behold. If a woman knew her children well—and how Madame Marot knew her children!—she would, with only a moment's thought, know what they would do and where they would be. An expression of omnipotent knowledge and tender amusement came over her face and she seemed to view everything, even him, with a new clarity. She said, looking up to the ceiling, "It's so obvious! How like her!" and turned around.

Doctor Fournier followed her, clueless and intrigued, as she walked to Clarice's door and said softly, "Marion, dear, I know you're in there."

And, like magic, the door swung open, revealing not Clarice, but Marion Marot, Justine's Copy of Candide in one hand and a plate of small cakes in the other. She was the spitting image of her mother, for anyone who cared to know, with her blonde hair, but her father's pale blue eyes. A few youthful freckles still dotted her cheeks. She asked sweetly, "Yes, mama?"

"Where is Mademioselle Laurent?"

"On the mainland."

"Did she say why?"

"No, but I am sure it had something to do with Justine."

"Why did she feel the need to sneak off?"

"Because she knew Alois would pester her and demand to be allowed to come to."

Madame Marot shepherded her out, smiling, "Could you track down your father and told him I sent for him? I'll be with Alois."

Her eyes flickered to him, "Why don't you?"

"Why _won't_ you, Marion?"

"Because it looks like he just belted Doctor Fournier one." She answered plainly. Madame Marot laughed, urged her on, and she turned to him again when her daughter was gone, smiling cleverly, "It is _always_ in the last place you look. I'll make sure she talks to him."

And she glided away after her daughter, filling Victor with a newfound sense of respect and awe for women. He walked back to Alois, and Malo, who was _still_ stuck holding Suzanne. He was one of the many who, when presented with a small, fragile and _living_ thing would tense up as if he had an intense fear of dropping it. She seemed to like him just fine.

"What, where was Marion?" he asked.

"In Clarice's room."

"T-then where is Clarice?"

"The mainland."

"W-what?"

"She went to the mainland and she did not inform _me_?" Alois asked, "What about _my_ feelings? I want to see Justine, too! I mean, I _know_ it's probably for the best that I don't and I know she needs to see her alone, but... but... Well damn it all I don't really _care_ what's best."

Malo sat down in the second chair and adjusted his grip on Suzanne. He rocked uneasily, "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Me too."

"Justine was upset with her when she left, I don't think she's gotten over it."

"Don't worry. Clarice will be perfectly safe."

"I'm not worried about her physically." Malo said, "I wish she had taken someone. Father David would have been the best choice. He's good with things like this. She didn't have to go alone."

"Are you sure you wouldn't it rather be you?" Victor asked out of curiosity.

"Are you _insane_?" the violinist exclaimed, "All asylums look the same. They all look like that dreary underground dungeon I was kept in. I'd die. I... I... Ugh. I need to go write some music. But... Could someone _please_ take this _baby? _I hate holding babies! What if I _drop it_?"

"But you're not even standing."

"What if I drop it?"

Alois nudged him with his cane, "I'll take her."

Malo, hesitant but glad, handed Suzanne to Alois. He set her on his lap as if he thought nothing of it. The moment Malo turned to walk away, she started to cry.

"Is she hurt?"

"No, she just likes you."

"Oh come _on!"_

"Oh, Malo, really, just go." Alois said, "I can handle a little fit."

"I don't get it. Why does she like _me_?"

"For the same reason cats like you."

"Ugh. I can't focus knowing there's a crying baby down here and it's my fault."

"Just bring the harp down. We'll set her in a chair facing you and you won't hear a word out of her. Or a peep, I suppose she can't talk."

"Well, to do that I'd need Basile and he's a jerk. Or, the inspector, but he's in no mood to be—Hey!"

Felix stormed through then. He pushed past Malo, glared at Victor and Alois, grabbed Suzanne, called them both a sick fucks, and walked out again. The silence that followed was broken by Malo's laughter as he walked out of the sitting room as well. The two doctors sat in silence until the sound of the harp drifted through the ceiling.

"It's _not_ hysteria." Alois said quickly, almost snidely.

"Are you a psychologist?"

"Well, no _physical_ medicine is my specialty, but—"

"—then you should really keep out of it."

"Of course, it's _still_ not hysteria, but that does not mean I won't treat for it."

"... Alois, you _are_ a sick fuck."

"Being a sick fuck in the _one_ catch-all diagnosis I like. Why can't we just diagnose Justine with that and be done with it? There is no treatment for being a sick fuck—"

"Alois, do stop saying that."

"And if it _was_ I'm pretty sure her regular relations with Basile would... I shouldn't have said that out loud." Victor laughed. "It's not hysteria!"

"Then what is it?"

"I—I don't know. But Hysteria's just a stilly diagnosis—"

"That you would treat for anyway if given the opprotunity?"

"Yes."

"You should have your license revoked."

The blind doctor started to laugh then, slouching down in his chair and spreading his cane across his lap, "You're probably right, but even then, what good will a license serve me?"

"Well, you're young still. You could go into law."

"And miss the line every time I sign my name?"

"Yes."

"With a little practice, I _could_ manage it, I suppose. It's the best I can do." He shrugged. Then he fell silent for a long time.

Victor wondered why he was still just sitting there, but he did not want to get up. Instead, he just leaned back in his own chair and let the laughter from outside drift in. This was a good life. He would regret having to go back to his practice on the mainland, of course, how could he? He had been gone for so long, the rent had not been paid. All of his records, all of his patients, gone. He frowned. He would have to start all over again.

He should go back to collected Monsieur Florbelle's notes. If he collected them and published them, he and Mademoiselle Florbelle would get to split the royalties, and with what her father had discovered, it was sure to be a great deal of money. He had discovered things that could turn the world of psychology on its head, certainly?

Alois interrupted his thoughts, "Doctor, why _don't_ we look into starting a sanitarium here?"

"We don't have the money." But if they published his notes, perhaps they _could_. Seized with sudden motivation, Victor stood up and dusted off his hands, "Well, we could get the money."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I'm going to hunt down Monsieur Florbelle's notes."

"Ah. I won't be much help. I'll stay."

He decided the best place to start would be upstairs, where Clarice might have put a few of the strays. It would be better to ask Clarice about where she had put the notes, but who knew how long it would take her to get back? It may very well be a few days. He wondered how she could manage on her own, and if she had thought to bring money and clothes for a stay in the hotel, but dismissed it quickly as he mounted the stairs. No sooner had he reached the landing than he was interrupted.

"Oh not _this_ crap again!" a voice shouted and the music stopped, "Go away!"

"I'm not here for you. I'm looking for Monsieur Florbelle's notes."

Footsteps. Malo appeared at the music room door, hands on his hips. He still had a Cello bow in his hand "Why?"

"To publish them. Perhaps if we did, we could put the money towards bringing Justine back here. It would not be much, but it would be a start."

That piqued his interest, "You think so? You look in that room, I'll look in this one."

Then he disappeared into the next room down the hall and Victor heard him rummaging around and eventually cursing, then hissing to himself, "This place is worse than my apartment!" then he was silent aside from the opening of a window and moving of furniture. Victor decided that even help that had no real idea what he was looking for was still good help, and so he went into the next room over, opened the window for light and air, and started looking himself.

He managed to find two notebooks with hastily scribbled observations about the differences in male and female children from the ages of three months to two years, and he was pouring over them, but then he heard Malo call through the wall, "It's nothing but old clothes in—Oh, this is pretty! Why does no one ever wear this? This is absolutely fabulous! This entire trunk just... Just should _not_ be up here."

Victor heard the sound of that trunk closing and another one opening. "Ew! This is so—Oh, no wonder, it's a Christmas decoration. My bad."

He fell into golden silence again. Victor set the two notebooks down and continued to look. There was one notebook of Justine's poetry written as a child, which he set down with the other two, just for some sample material for the published case study, and continued to look, but aside from just day-to-day observations about his two children that were jotted down between his sessions with adults, and his notes on them were too numerous to sort through right now. There was nothing much up here. He went through the other rooms, notebooks in his arm, but they were just stuffed with heirlooms and nick-knacks that Malo would find fascinating, but held no real interest for Victor Fournier.

He did not want to go down stairs empty handed, but at the same time he did not want to go to Monsieur Florbelle's study alone. Of course, the obvious choice was Inspector Marot, who was a policeman and could deal with the frightening memories, but he was still furious with him, probably. All of the others had a good reason to refuse, they were either blind, young, frail or female, with the exception of Malo, who had the _very_ good reason of not wanting to go insane again.

He went back to where the violinist was looking, trunks half-open around him and a length of blue cloth spread across his lap, he said without waiting for Victor to say anything, "Look at this, don't you think this is a good color for Clarice? Goes with her eyes, not too dark, though... really well preserved, too."

"I'm going to go down into the cellar; it's the easiest way to get to Monsieur Florbelle's study."

Malo froze.

"It would be foolish to go alone." Victor told him.

"I don't want to!" he said, already assuming that was what Victor was here to ask, "For very obvious reasons. The best way to get down there is to go through that godforsaken dungeon! How could you even _think_ about asking me?"

"So, you won't do it?"

"I'm not an idiot. I'm not going!"

"Fair enough. But who _can_ I ask? It's no place for a lady, or a child, and I would ask Inspector Marot, but he is still upset with me. Father David may be a man of the church, but he's a _frail_ man of the church, the other two are blind."

Malo frowned, "Even I don't like the thought of you going down there alone, but what if we get locked down there? Again?"

"It's not like we won't tell someone."

Malo bit his lip, "I don't _want_ to." he said again, "I'm not. I'm sorry, I just can't."

"If there was just some—There was a door!"

"What?"

"In the study. There was a boarded-up door. When I stepped near it, something beat against it, just once. It could not have been Alois, and it could not have been Basile, I don't think. Was it you?"

"No."

"That means there is a door somewhere that must lead to it. Maybe that is how Justine got in and out of the entire Cabinet. I suppose Clarice would know where it is on this side."

"Well, it would be in a hall she never used, I guess, probably stacked full of junk, too, and that would be the east side."

"East side?"

"Servant's quarters." Malo answered, "Always on the east side, that's where the sun rises, always the last apartments in a building to go, my guess is on the south side—gets the most sun, so it get hotter. It's always the least favorite part of a house."

So the two walked down the stairs again, and to the eastern hall ways on the first floor. They did find one which was filled with junk, just as Malo had predicted, but it was all in one spot, obstructing the way to one door and a sea of junk. On the other side of this sea of junk, there was a portrait of Justine's mother, and another of her little brother, partially covered with a dust cloth, both of them, as well as child's toys and trunks and a host of other things. It was not particularly heavy junk, (the grandfather clock had its workings removed and the trunks were all empty, seeming purchased for just this purpose) just one or two things had to be moved to clear a path and the two managed it. It was not set up to hide the door, just to make it inconvenient enough that no one casually looking would want to go there.

It was what they found on the other side that made Malo tut-tut under his breath, "We need Basile."

"There's a sledge hammer aiming at the door."

"Which is precisely why we need Basile. I'll get him."

He turned on his heel and waded back through the junk, and he was gone for a few minutes. Victor looked around the parlor, There was a single dusty bookshelf, filled with books, mainly photo albums, bank books, various records. A compilation of love letters. Everything else was blank and dusty. There was just one wooden chair and table and a coat stand. The wall paper was peeling off, the original paintings would probably make the artist cry if they could see what condition their work was in now. There were a few note books; Justine's notebook detailing the various stages her cabinet had gone through, each with maps and a detailed description of what she had done, seen, and felt, what she would do next. The desk contained an unhealthy amount of lithium and an abundance of blank parchment paper, as well as sticks of charcoal, so that she would never be out of cryptic drawings. Justine had a library of personal journals. Some of them were hers. Some of them belonged to Clarice. Some of them belonged to Alois and Malo, some belonged to others who must have left the mansion a long time ago.

Malo was saying, "-it's a carpentry-mechanical type of problem, and you know I'm no good with that. What your step."

The two walked in, Malo leading Basile by the arm right to the door, "Watch your head, there is a sledge hammer aiming at the door."

"What else is there."

"It's got a pull handle and a knob. The hinges are by the knob, and it won't budge. Victor's guess is that is leads to the study and the study door is boarded up."

"Oh, well, I'll see what I can do."

They waited for about five minutes while Basile tapped against the wall and muttered to himself, he eventually stood back and said, "I almost feel _sorry_ for this wall."

"What?"

"It just _looks_ nailed up from one side." Basile said, "On the outside it's actually a whole other door. That reinforcement in the middle of the top half, probably Hickory, and just above that, poised to strike, is…" Basile reached up, "Ordinary sledgehammer. Hidden switch in the floor on the other side triggers the resistance, and _bamn!—"_ He let the hammer fall, "You've got a jump scare."

"That's great," Victor said, "but how do we get it open?"

"That's easy. Free the nails."

"On the other side?"

"Nail heads are, whatever they were nailed to probably isn't."

"How can you tell?"

"The original door was taken out, this door knob is fake, and the hinges are pretty cleverly disguised on the same side, can see them or the pull handle from that side. The only thing keeping is closed is the boards on the other side."

"So, how do we get the nails out?"

He ran his hand along the left side of the frame, then he pulled out a pocket knife and slid it between the frame and the wall. A piece of the frame popped out, falling at a right angle, held by a wooden peg that blended in and allowed it to rotate. Two more parts turned with it, The hammer reset itself, barely missing Victor's head as it snapped back into place.

"And that's how it works. Open it, hammer resets, try to go near it, hammer falls, counterbalances this thing—" Basile let the hammer fall again, the doorframe popped back into place, "Trapping you in."

"She's brilliant."

"Isn't she? Just wish she wasn't such a bitch." He opened the mechanism again and pushed the door, it swung open easily, with the sound of nails scraping the door. A draft of stale, cold air greeted them, like it was greeting them, inviting them back inside, like it had missed them, and this was its foul welcome kiss.

"I've got chills." Victor confessed, "One of you should stay out here, just in case it slams shut whenever someone walks in."

Malo, unprompted, walked over to the bookshelf, picked up a leather-bound journal, and leaned it against the frame, "That should do it, but seriously, Basile, stay here. I'd feel much better if you did."

"Is there at least a chair?" he asked.

"Yes, this way, I'll move it for you."

Victor let them sort out the chair, and he walked through the musty study and hallway. It was pitch black. The candles had burned down, and there were rings of white wax on the floor. He doubled back, "It's dark in there."

"Really?" Basile asked dryly, "And that stops you?"

"I just want a few candles. There are a few in that junk."

He picked up an armful, as well as two straight candle sticks and one three-pronged one. He did not have matches, but the desk provided a tinderbox. He set five of the candles in the sticks, and they still had a good many left, and he lit them, handing two to Malo, and keeping the three pronged on to himself, "In we go."

"Fine, but I won't like it." The violinist replied, and he followed.

There were not enough candles in the world. When they had the library completely lit, and had replaced all of the candles that had melted down and were_ not_ out of reach, it still felt like they were bumbling around in the dark.

They carried books out by the armful and piled them in the center of the little parlor where the light was better, and once the study was pitch black again, they shut the door. It was going to be a long, but hopefully fruitful night.

* * *

It's raining. I'm starving. I can't think of a better time to update.


End file.
